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COFTOGHT DEPOSIT. 



MODERN 
SHORT-STORIES 



EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND WITH 
BIOGRAPHIES AND BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

BY 

MARGARET ASHMUN, M.A. 

FORMERLY INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH IN 
THE UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN 



Jleto govk 
THE MACMILLAN 



7H337 3 

,A 7 



Copyright, 1914 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 



Set up and electrotyped. Published January, 1914 



'RIS PRINTING COMPANY 
*-»*. N. Y., U. S. A. 










MODERN 
SHORT-STORIES 



■?&&& 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
DALLAS » ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



RIS PR, 







TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Introduction 

I. The short-story as a subject of study . . vii 

II. The technique of the short-story . . . x 

, III. The short-story in Europe and America . xx 

^The Cask of Amontillado By Edgar Allan Poe . i 

The Return of a Private By Hamlin Garland . 15 

Mateo Falcone .... By Prosper Merimeje . 43 

\ The Hiding of Black Bill By O. Henry (William 

Sidney Porter) . . 64 

J The Substitute ... By Francois Coppee . 84 

Rip Van Winkle. . . . By Washington Irving ioi 

4-The Thief By Feodor Dostoievski 13c 

The King of Boyville . By William Allen 

White 150 

VThe Father By Bjornstjerne 

Bjornson . . . .172 
v ] 
\What Was it? A Mystery By Fitz-James O'Brien 179, 

The Real Thing ... By Henry James . . 201 

[sDr. Heidegger's Experi- By Nathaniel Haw- 
ment ....... thorne .... 243 

A Rose of the Ghetto . By Israel Zangwill . 262 

Two Friends . . . . By Guy de Maupas- 
sant 284 



f- 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Aged Folk By Alphonse Daudet 297 

. . By Jack London . . 309 



I/To Build a Fire . 
I Rhymer the Second 

ft Living Relic . . 

'The Monkey's Paw 

A Christmas Guest 
The Long Exile . . 






. By Arthur Morrison. 337 

. By Ivan Turgenev . 354 

. By William Wymark 

Jacobs 377 

. By Selma Lagerlof . 395 

. By Leo Tolstoi . . . 409 

Appendix: A List of Reference Books and Short- 
Stories 424 



PREFACE 



In the^ompiling of this volume, two purposes have 
been kept in mind. First, the aim of the editor has 
been to provide, for the general reader and for col- 
lege students in particular, a group of modern short- 
stories of intrinsic value, to be studied for their con- 
tent and for their significance in relation to modern 
art. In other words, the book is intended to supply 
material for an academic or literary study of the short- 
story. Secondly, and perhaps more directly, the vol- 
ume is planned to furnish examples for analysis by 
classes in short-story writing. In the broad sense, it 
is a collection of models that may be used as a basis 
for college courses in narration. 

A word may be said as to the general character of 
the selections. No one who reads widely in the field of 
the short-story can fail to note the preponderance of se- 
rious, not to say tragic, tales; on the whole, in the 
short-story as in the novel, the masterpieces are con- 
cerned with the darker aspects of life. For this reason 
it is more difficult than would at first appear to select 
from the stories at command a suitable number that are 
not over-serious or gloomy. The editor of the present 
volume has been at some pains to include a reasonable 



vi PREFACE 

proportion of stories that, while dignified and sub- 
stantial, are still optimistic in tone. 

The table of contents will show the names of au- ' 
thors from those nations that have excelled in the 
short-story in its modern form: the American, the ) 
Russian, the French, the English, and the Scandi- 
navian. Suggestions for additional study provide ma- 
terial for an ample survey of the European short- 
story, as well as the English and American; in no 
cases do the reading-lists include foreign stories that / 
cannot easily be found in translation. As far as 
possible, the editor has chosen examples representative 
of varied national methods. While it is for obvious 
reasons impossible to furnish examples of every kind 
of short-story, an attempt has been made to vary the 
character of the selections and illustrate many of the 
established types. 

Some care has also been taken in the choosing of 
plots that lend themselves to analysis; the formal or 
even symmetrical structure of stories like The Cask of 
Amontillado, Dr. Heidegger's Experiment, The Christ- 
mas Guest, and The Monkey's Paw is easy to discern 
and to comprehend. A good illustration of the value 
of "straight-away narration" is shown in Jack Lon- 
don's To Build a Fire; the opposite extreme of episodic 
condensation is exhibited in The Father. A number 
of stories reveal an admirable combination of narra- 
tion, conversation, and swift psychologic analysis. The 
possibilities of dialect are brought out in The Return 
of a Private, The Hiding of Black Bill, and Rhymer 
the Second. The varied uses of setting may be pointed 



PREFACE 



VII 



out in the course of the volume, — as indeed it is hoped 
may be the case with all the more telling devices for 
making a short-story interesting and impressive. 

In the Introduction, the editor frankly confesses, no 
attempt has been made to add anything new to the 
mass of commentary on the short-story. What has 
been done here is merely to put into available shape 
the commonly accepted theories of the short-story, and 
to present in condensed form the history of this mod- 
ern type of fiction. In the biographies, the editor has 
tried to give what seemed to her significant concern- 
ing the lives and the work of the authors under dis- 
cussion, and to note, on occasion, their relation to 
other writers. In the main, minute analysis of tech- 
nique has been avoided, so that teachers and students 
may be left free to work out conclusions after their 
own manner. The references are intended to save the 
teachers' time in looking up material in Poole's Index 
and elsewhere, and to aid those students who are 
asked to supplement the work of the class by individ- 
ual reports. The reading-lists are inserted for the 
convenience of those teachers and students who wish 
to make a more complete study of the short-story 
than the necessarily restricted text will permit. 

The editor of Modern Short-Stories believes that 
she has been peculiarly fortunate in the readiness with 
which authors and publishers have responded to her 
requests for printing privileges. She takes pleasure in 
expressing her thanks to those whose generosity has 
made this book possible. She wishes also to record her 







Vlll 



PREFACE 



indebtedness to Dr. Gerhard R. Lomer, of the Pulitzer 
School of Journalism, Columbia University, for his 
advice and assistance in the choice of material ; and to 
Professor Julius E. Olson, of the University of Wis- 
consin, for his translation of Bjornson's The Father. 



J M 



INTRODUCTION 



THE SHORT-STORY AS A SUBJECT OF STUDY 

There was a time, not very long ago, when the 
short-story was regarded as an inferior form of lit- 
erary art. It was pleasant and entertaining, to be 
sure, but scarcely worthy a master's hand. The 
critic, content to give it a passing word, saw no 
necessity of awarding it the careful study and the 
definite reduction to principle that other forms of 
fiction merited. Of late, however, the short-story 
has come into its own. One has only to run through 
a literary index or the catalogue of any good library, 
to see what a mass of commentary has been pro- 
duced relating to this distinctly modern type of nar- 
rative. Mr. Brander Matthews, in his The Philosophy 
of the Short-story, published in 1885* was one °f 
the first to recognize the dignity of the short-story 
and to formulate the principles which underlie its 
material and structure. Now the painstaking labors 
of Mr. Canby, Mr. Esenwein, Miss Albright, Mr. 
Pitkin, and others, have organized the subject and 

* Reprinted by the Longmans Green Company in 1901. 



xii INTRODUCTION 

expounded both theory and practice, so that there 
remains, it would seem, but little more to be said. 

The result of all this thorough-going discussion 
is that the critical estimate of the short-story as a 
form of art has steadily risen. No one will hesitate 
to grant that the skill displayed in the perfecting of 
a brief, compressed narrative like The Necklace or 
Without Benefit of Clergy is as veritably the mark 
of genius as the power to picture life within the 
more generous confines of the novel. Thus it is 
that more and more attention is being given in all 
schools and colleges to the study of the short-story, 
and that a knowledge of the great short-stories of 
the world is looked upon as one of the elements of 
a general culture. 

The obvious way to know the great short-stories 
is to read them. Desultory reading is valuable in- 
asmuch as it provides a wide if somewhat unstable 
basis of judgment. But directed study is of much 
more worth. It is one thing to read a story like 
The Substitute (Le Remplagant) , by Coppee, merely 
for the tale itself and its emotional content, — neither 
of which is, of course, to be despised; it is quite 
another matter to read the same story with an under- 
standing of its technique, and with the ability to place 
the author in time and literary rank. The student 
of the short-story should supplement his general read- 
ing by a thorough consideration of organized theory; 
and he should vivify and consummate his knowledge 
of technique by the scrupulous analysis of a number 
of masterpieces. Nor should he stop here. Any 



h 



INTRODUCTION 



classic is rendered doubly profitable as the substance 
/ of education if some information concerning the 
author and his relation to the literature of his own 
country accompanies its perusal. A short-story classic 
given full justice in a college course in narration con- 
tributes no small amount to the student's literary 
acquirements. 

As a form of composition to be essayed by the 
student-writer, the short-story offers the most stim- 
ulating possibilities. An attempt to organize a plot, 
and to eliminate all extraneous material with a view 
to producing the unity of impression which modern 
theory demands, is an exercise which cannot prove 
other than illuminating to one who wishes a first- 
hand knowledge of this type of narrative. The result 
may indeed be disheartening, or at least not con- 
ducive to vanity; but the discernment and discrim- 
ination that one gains in the process are a just com- 
pensation for the time and energy expended. All 
that appears quite obvious and simple in the work 
of a skilled writer becomes little less than confusion 
to the unskilled. The problem of bringing an orderly 
series of impressions out of the mass of events, char- 
acters, and emotions at hand is not less diverting than 
instructive. A continued effort to write short-stories 
awakens one, as almost nothing else will, to the dra- 
matic significance of much in one's environment that 
would otherwise be misunderstood or ignored." It 
helps, too, in defining one's attitude toward life: it 
is self -revelatory as well as self-educative. And when 
the effort becomes successful to the extent that one's 



xiv INTRODUCTION 

tales actually find their way to print, the reward is 
tangible and satisfying, whether it be measured in 
money or in the consciousness of achievement. 



II 



THE TECHNIQUE OF THE SHORT-STORY 

The distinguishing features of the short-story are 
its brevity and its concentration. In length, it usu- 
ally runs from fifteen hundred words to six or eight 
thousand. Shorter or longer, it is likely to pass over 
into the sketch or anecdote on the one hand, or the 
novelette on the other. Notable examples may be 
cited of true short-stories that fall outside the limits 
mentioned, but these are exceptions merely; the fact 
remains that too great compression and undue pro- 
lixity are alike to be avoided. 

The matter of concentration is paramount. It is, 
indeed, customary to distinguish between the short 
(or merely brief) story and the genuine short- 
story (with a hyphen) which exhibits the unity of 
impression that is the characteristic of the genus. 
The modern short-story aims at producing a single 
effect, gained by a rigid exclusion of all that is irrel- 
evant, or only unnecessary, and the emphasis of ideas 
that are essential. The conscientious author must 
withstand the temptation to digress. He must con- 
sistently restrain himself with "But that is another 
story", and hold strictly to the matter in hand. 

The beginning of a short-story is of vital import- 



INTRODUCTION xv 

ance, since it often decides whether the reader is will- 
ing to go on to the end. The old-fashioned method 
of starting a story with a long description or a pro- 
tracted discussion of some philosophical question has 
its evident disadvantages. It is likely to repel the 
modern reader, who demands immediate stimulation. 
Conversation as an introduction piques the curiosity 
in the desired way, but is likely to be obscure if the 
place and the persons involved are not indicated at 
once. Pure narration is admirable, unless it becomes 
vague for the want of information concerning the 
who and the where of the story. All things con- 
sidered, the plan of opening a story with a bit of 
description and following this quickly by conversation 
and narration seems to have proved satisfactory to the 
largest number of those who have written short-story 
masterpieces. The cheaper story of to-day depends 
somewhat upon the bizarre quality of its dialogue to 
catch the eye of the reader; there is, too, a type of 
story imitating Kipling, and after him O. Henry, in 
that it makes use of a sententious phrase by way of 
introduction, followed by a brief epigrammatic com- 
mentary. This sort of opening has degenerated into 
a would-be cleverness very distasteful to the fas- 
tidious reader. The more dignified method — that of 
a leisurely directness — has demonstrated its value, 
and the best writers are continuing to employ it.* 

*The greatest writers have sometimes been less than suc- 
cessful with their introductions. Note Scott's Wandering 
Willie's Tale, which is irritatingly slow in getting started; and 
Dostoievski's The Thief, which is misleading at the first. A 
number of other examples might be given. 



xvi INTRODUCTION 

The way in which a story is told determines to 
some extent the success of its construction and the 
handling of the plot. The use of simple, straight- 
forward narration is nearly always appropriate and 
dignified. Allied to this method, and more service- 
able for purposes of condensation, is the use of de- 
tached incidents, each a brief concentrated bit of 
narration with its own suspense and climax; each 
incident in turn contributes to the effect produced by 
the grand climax and the denouement. Bjornson em- 
ploys this device with the utmost dexterity in The 
Father, and Maupassant uses it frequently, nowhere 
with more success than in The Necklace. A story 
may be related by means of conversation, which, how- 
ever, can seldom be used alone. In The Dolly Dia- 
logues Anthony Hope has eliminated as nearly as 
possible all but the actual conversation of the char- 
acters; the story is told — but it is not, in most cases, 
either long or complicated. Letters, journals, and 
diaries have now and again been used to give the exter- 
nal form to short-stories, but they are rather awkward 
and unsafe. They are inclined to limit the range of 
background and conversation, they necessitate the use 
of irrelevant material, and they are likely to give an 
effect of egotism or morbidity. Nevertheless, they 
are well adapted for tales of an introspective and 
personal nature, a fact that is shown in Maupassant's 
The Horla, and Turgenev's The Diary of a Super- 
fluous Man. A combination of pure narration or de- 
tached incidents with conversation is likely to produce 



INTRODUCTION xvii 

the best effect in almost all cases, irrespective of the 
nature of the plot, f 

"Plot in fiction is the climactic sequence of events 
in relation to the characters," says Mr. Esenwein in 
his excellent discussion of short-story writing. Miss 
Albright puts it : "Plot is the management of the con- 
tinuous line of action underlying the whole progress 
of the story. It concerns the sequence of events." 
This definition, though no doubt sound enough in its 
implications, fails to emphasize the fact that the se- 
quence of events must lead up to a climax and a de- 
nouement. A mere ordering of a series of events does 
not constitute a plot ; the progress of the action must be 
toward some definite end. The story must "come 
out" in some way or other, not merely stop. There 
must, in other words, be a complication and a resolu- 
tion if there is to be a short-story plot. The develop- 
ment of a plot usually follows this scheme : Introduc- 
tion of situation and characters; progress of the 
complication (this is the story proper, and permits 
an indefinite amount of expansion or compression, 
at least within the limits indicated above) ; climax or 
crisis, — the point of highest tension; denouement, or 
the solution of the problem proposed in the tale — the 
untangling of the complication; conclusion, which 
"closes up" the story, sometimes restoring emotional 
equilibrium after a period of excitement (conclusion 
and denouement often combine, as in The Necklace, 
but not infrequently they are quite distinct, as in 
Master and Man, by Tolstoi). 

Closely allied with plot is the construction of a 



xviii INTRODUCTION 

story. It is in this feature that the modern writer 
has excelled. There were, in other words, good plots 
before there was good construction. It took many- 
years of blundering to disclose the trick of combining 
condensation with movement sc that construction 
should be logical, compact, and climactic. The man 
who discovered that trick was Edgar Allan Poe.* For 
good construction the first essential is direct approach ; 
then comes the elimination of unnecessary material; 
transitions must be smooth and rapid; the progress 
of the action must be steady, leading on to a conclu- 
sion which nothing delays except some legitimate 
device for securing suspense. Movement can be ac- 
celerated by a close association of incidents and a 
quick disposal of the passage of time. From the be- 
ginning the denouement should be held definitely in 
mind as the goal of the action. Important characters 
should be introduced early and claim the lion's share 
of attention throughout. A lively style contributes 
to the feeling of movement in a story. 

Suspense is a necessary accompaniment of move- 
ment. Arousing the reader's interest and then play- 
ing with it for a brief space produces a pleasurably 
tantalizing effect. The secret is to avoid going beyond 
the limit within which suspense is pleasant. A com- 
mon device for gaining suspense is to introduce a 
conversation by the chief personages in the story. 
Another is the interpolation of a highly significant, 
amusing, or dramatic incident. Still another, which 
has found favor of late years, is the analysis of sen- 

* See a comment on this point, page 11. 



INTRODUCTION xix 

sation, feeling, or motive in the characters taking part 
in the action. Bits of description often serve to de- 
velop suspense, and are especially valuable when 
combined with conversation and analysis. In The 
Cask of Amontillado Poe has exemplified nearly 
every device for gaining suspense ; without it, his tale 
would have had too swift a progress toward its hor- 
rible denouement, the mind of the reader would have 
been left unprepared, and much of the thrilling effect 
would have been lost. 

Cli max, a connecting link with plot, is another 
characteristic of good construction. Climax must not 
be confused with denouement, although the two often 
fall close together: their superposition is accidental, 
not imperative. A climax, as has been previously 
said, is a point of intense interest or stimulation in 
a story ; naturally, the highest point of interest is likely 
to come near the "resolution." Climax is produced 
partly by the negative device of a quiet and leisurely 
beginning, and a gradual approach to the most striking 
situations. Hastening the movement and heighten- 
ing the emotional pitch give added force to a climax. 
/ The elements of good construction, then, are con- 
/ densation, movement, suspense, and climax, each of 
I which the skillful writer has definite methods of 
\ attaining. 

The setting is "the background against which the 
events of the story are projected." It makes clear the 
time and place in which the action occurs. The set- 
ting may be, and usually is, subordinated to the 
events; it localizes the incidents and persons that fur- 



xx INTRODUCTION 

nish the substance of the story. Such a treatment of 
setting may be called scenic. It consists principally 
of interpolated passages of description having the 
quality of realistic detail; it is never intrusive, and 
makes merely for the visualizing of the activities and 
characters involved. Scenic setting is illustrated in 
The Father, by Bjornson, and The Substitute, by 
Coppee. There is another use of setting that may be 
called structural or dramatic. Here it is so closely 
associated with plot that it is a necessary element, or 
gives rise to the situation involved, as in Mrs. Knollys, 
by Stimson, or To Build a Fire, by London. A third 
use of setting is that which is shown in stories of 
local color, in which the background is highly elabor- 
ated for its own sake, in order that it may reveal the 
modes of life in some special region. There are various 
ways of bringing out local color. The most obvious, 
and the way open to the least skillful, is description. 
However, the ingenious writer will not stop with this. 
He will emphasize occupation, perhaps, as is done in 
Connolly's sea tales, or Von Saar's The Stone- 
breakers; or he will introduce local characters, or local 
customs, prejudices, and superstitions, as in Fernald's 
Chinatown Stories, and Lafcadio Hearn's Youma. 
Then there is the device of dialect — to be used with 
caution, since the dialect story has fallen more or 
less into disrepute through indiscriminate and un- 
intelligent use. In spite of the disfavor with which 
editors regard it, dialect is a legitimate means of pro- 
ducing local color, and should be courageously em- 
ployed if a story seems to demand it. 



INTRODUCTION xxi 

The dangers in the treatment of setting are several. 
An over-elaboration of background is usually distract- 
ing and irritating. Then, too, there is the temptation 
to "fine writing,'' and the shifting of attention from 
characters to setting at inopportune moments. Taking 
the setting too seriously has led some authors into 
a symbolism that is both unnatural and inartistic. 
Such treatment of the background is extremely dan- 
gerous, since it tends almost inevitably toward the 
melodramatic, and escapes that error only in the hands 
of the most skillful writers. 

The exhibition of character is one of the chief pur- 
poses in the short-story, especially in this day, when 
so much of the best fiction has a psychological or a 
sociological aspect. One way, the least valuable, per- 
haps, of suggesting personality is the careful selection 
of names. The old stupid device of indicating persons 
in a story by means of initials, dashes, or asterisks 
has happily been abandoned. Names may be made 
significant without being symbolic; it takes no great 
discernment to see that a character named Howard 
McLane * is quite a different man from one named Bill 
Wragg.f Commonplace or fantastic names may be 
used for humorous purposes, but even in the serious 
story a well-chosen name has a value not to be 
ignored. Mr. Garland probably had a reason for giv- 
ing the colorless appellation of Ed. Smith to the chief 
character in The Return of a Private; but surely Mr. 

* Up the Coolly, by Hamlin Garland. 

f Rhymer the Second, by Arthur Morrison. 



xxii INTRODUCTION 

Jacobs might have done better than to give the old 
man in The Monkey's Paw the name of Mr. White. 

Description is naturally employed in any attempt at 
characterization, since it is difficult to arrive at a con- 
cept of the inner life without a vivid idea of the outer 
man. Mere description, however, is likely to be in- 
effectual and dull. In order to escape becoming re- 
pugnant, it usually needs to be combined with other 
elements. Conversation is, of course, one of the best 
devices for bringing out character. It should usually 
be brief and broken, since long speeches tend to make 
a story appear monotonous and didactic. Dialogue 
should be carefully adapted to the individual person- 
ages in the story; tricks of speech may be cleverly em- 
ployed for this purpose, though there is always the dan- 
ger of overdoing them and producing caricature un- 
awares. Bookishness and stilted speech should above 
all things be avoided, though pure and noble English 
need not be denied to any character who is worthy 
of it. Slang, profanity, and coarseness are, it is need- 
less to say, legitimate devices for depicting character; 
but some authors forget that a very little of that sort 
of thing makes a much stronger effect on a printed 
page than in actual conversation. 

I Action is probably the best means of presenting 
character; the author who can make his personages 
live and move and perform their parts before the 
reader is coming nearest to real life, in which we 
judge people more by their actions than by their looks 
or speech. Action is almost inevitably combined with 
conversation, yet there are cases in which action 



INTRODUCTION xxiii 

united with description and analysis has produced 
very powerful effects, as in To Build a Fire and 
Markheim. 

The remaining method of presenting character is 
that of direct analysis. Other things being equal, this 
is a poor method, since it lacks variety, and the veri- 
similitude of action and conversation. Nevertheless, 
it has proved successful in the hands of Mr. Henry 
James, Mrs. Wharton, and other well-known writers. 
In this ultra-modern type of story one may trace the 
effects of the psychological research which has dis- 
tinguished this latter age. 

The great short-stories, like the great novels, have 
not only told tales and depicted characters, but they 
have possessed an ethical import inestimably increasing 
their worth, — have contributed something to the read- 
er's knowledge of life. This virtue defies dissection. 
It is achieved so subtly, by means of style and diction, 
by turns of phrase or even by words withheld, by 
general treatment or scattered passages of particular 
moment, that it can scarcely be reduced to theory. 
Yet it is after all the vital power in any story, and 
the writer who cannot make it felt is lacking in the 
first elements of genius: Which all comes back to 
saying that short-story writers are born, not made 
by ever so minute a study of technique. 



xxiv INTRODUCTION 



III 



THE SHORT-STORY IN EUROPE AND AMERICA 

The short-story is distinctly a product of the nine- 
teenth century. Those short narratives which ap- 
peared in the eighteenth century were so influenced 
by the didacticism of the period that they could seldom 
be said to exist for their own sakes, but rather for 
the sake of the moral they could point. There is a 
surprising amount of narration in the Spectator, but it 
is almost invariably the mere accompaniment of the 
essay, and thoroughly permeated with the didactic 
spirit. As yet there was no ideal of a complete unified 
narrative which, in small compass, should create its 
own impression and tell its own tale for no other 
reason than that the tale was worth telling. 

With the rise of romanticism, the story for its own 
sake came into being and rapidly gained in popularity, 
although its form was scarcely such as to warrant the 
approbation it received. In matter it was much in- 
debted to the work of the German romantic school. 
The stories of Hoffmann were directly and indirectly 
responsible for many of the ghost-stories and tales 
of midnight adventure in haunted palaces that filled 
the English magazines of the early nineteenth century. 
The previous age of sentiment, as recorded in the 
novels of Richardson and Sterne, contributed its share 
to the hordes of swooning maidens and impeccable 
heroes to be found in the short-stories of the time. 



INTRODUCTION xxv 

Irving, the first writer of really good short-stories in 
either England or America, made use of the same 
romantic material that his predecessors and contem- 
poraries employed ; but his discerning sense of humor 
and his fine reserve transformed the story that he 
found into something inexpressibly superior. Yet, in 
spite of the leisurely completeness of his best tales, 
Irving had no definite conception of the short-story; 
although his influence was great in the matter of the 
introduction of humor and the use of a picturesque 
setting, it was in the matter of construction compara- 
tively small. One has only to read here and there for 
a few hours in the British and American magazines of 
the first quarter of the nineteenth century to see how 
straggling, amorphous, and ineffectual were the short 
narratives produced in such abundance and so eagerly 
read. One of the very best of these early tales is 
William Austin's Peter Rngg (1824) : the germ of 
the story is excellent, and the incidents are presented 
with vividness and power ; but the tale is ill-organized 
in its first form, and doubly incoherent in the later 
form, in which it has a long appendix added to the 
original account of Peter Rugg's punishment for his 
presumption. 

It was, at last, in the hands of Poe that the short- 
story became a consciously artistic unit, based upon 
a plan of its own, and amenable to laws as dignified 
as those governing other forms of art. It is a truism 
to say that the short-story per se began when Poe, in 
^35 > completed his Berenice — revolting as it is — with 
its compact and inevitable construction and its relent- 



xxvi INTRODUCTION 

less progress toward the denouement. Poe's succeed- 
ing stories are all, or nearly all, perfectly consistent 
in their method. He deliberately sought the totality 
of effect that characterizes the short-story of the pres- 
ent age. He uses indeed the very term totality in his 
remarkable analysis of the short-story incorporated 
in his criticism of Hawthorne (1842). The skillful 
author, he says, in the course of this comment, "Hav- 
ing conceived with deliberate care a certain unique or 
single effect to be wrought out, . . . then invents such 
incidents — then combines such events as may best aid 
him in establishing this preconceived effect ... In 
the whole composition there should be no word writ- 
ten of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to 
the one preestablished design." Thus he works out 
the principle of the short-story, which, though it may 
have occasionally been empirically exemplified before 
his time,* had never been formulated and expressed. 

The influence of Poe was immense. Fitz-James 
O'Brien took his construction — and most of it was 
good — from Poe. So did Bret Harte. By his time, 
the theory of the short-story was fairly well under- 
stood, and blunders of construction became the excep- 
tion and not the rule in the work of able writers. 

Poe and Hawthorne were romanticists, but in the 
next generation the romantic influence had somewhat 
exhausted itself. The humanitarian spirit was begin- 
ning to be felt in all forms of fiction. Individualism, 
and sundry doctrines of equality and fraternity, re- 

*For instance, Mateo Falcone, by Merimee, was written hi 
1829. 



INTRODUCTION xxvii 

vealed the existence of unsuspected masses of new 
material, sociological in its significance but of the 
highest literary value. The application of principles 
generally recognized as sound to the new and inspir- 
ing material could not fail to bring striking results. 
It was not only in America but even more emphati- 
cally in Europe that this alliance of forces made itself 
felt. In France, Gautier had — apparently — learned 
from Poe the art exhibited in La Morte Amour euse 
and other romantic stories. The same art* was readily 
adapted to altered conditions. The great wave of 
realism that swept over Europe in the latter half of 
the nineteenth century was scarcely likely to leave the 
short-story untouched. The Russians, beginning with 
Gogol, in The Cloak, wrote bitterly of the down-trod- 
den and oppressed: Dostoievski, Turgenev, Tolstoi, 
and, later, Garshin, Gorki, and Tchekhov, have pro- 
duced a series of powerful realistic tales prevailingly 
admirable in technique. The influence of these writers 
on the development of European and American real- 
ism has been very great. It was extremely strong in 
France, although that country had her own impulses 
toward the same modes of thought. The French 
short-story in the course of time achieved a perfection 
that, while deliberate and unfailingly conscious, has 
been a delight to modern readers and an inspiration 
to most modern writers. The custom of printing 
short-stories in the best newspapers, in the dearth of 
fiction magazines, gave an incentive to those authors 

* Baudelaire's French translations of Poe's stories made the 
new method of construction well known in Europe. 



xxviii INTRODUCTION 

who were willing to expend their best energies upon 
this favorite form of narrative. Much of the finest 
work of Daudet and Maupassant appeared day by day 
in Le Figaro, Le Matin, and other Parisian news- 
papers. As the French in the days of Poe received 
instruction and stimulation from America, they in a 
later season reciprocated by a vital influence upon 
American story-tellers. It would be difficult to say 
how much the recent short-story in this country owes 
to Maupassant. 

England has not until recently made any very great 
progress with the short-story. The English writers 
have preferred the ampler scope of the novel, or have, 
as a rule, contented themselves with a mediocre type 
of short-story, not by any means comparable to the 
general quality of the same form of fiction in either 
France or the United States. Kipling's stories, how- 
ever, are among the best that have been written any- 
where, and Stevenson's, though fewer in number, de- 
serve praise almost as high. Undoubtedly both Kip- 
ling and Stevenson learned something from the 
French story writers; Kipling, indeed seems to be 
greatly indebted to Maupassant for a number of his 
methods. Of late years, Barrie, Jacobs, Morrison, 
Zangwill, Ouiller-Couch ("Q"), and Thomas Hardy 
have distinguished themselves in the field of the short- 
story. 

In America, the vogue of the short-story has con- 
stantly increased since the days of O'Brien and Bret 
Harte. Edward Everett Hale's The Man Without a 
Country, though not strong in construction, was a 



INTRODUCTION xxix 

notable piece of early work, and has remained popu- 
lar as much for its merit as for its theme. Mr. Henry- 
James began, in the late sixties, to contribute well- 
constructed stories to the magazines. Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich, as early as 1866, was writing tales for 
Harper's. With the possible exception of Pere An- 
toine's Date-palm, they were not so good as his later 
stories, but they gave him the training that produced 
A Struggle for Life, Quite So, and Marjorie Daw. 
It is not difficult to see in Aldrich the influence of the 
French writers, especially Daudet. The success of 
The Jumping Frog offered Mark Twain opportunities 
which he did not make the most of in the short-story. 
In the seventies, George W. Cable gained a reputa- 
tion with some of the first of the local color studies, — 
his Old Creole Days and Strange True Stories of 
Louisiana. Sarah Orne Jewett began to write in 
1877, and for thirty years continued to print her quiet 
and finished "tales of New England," the best of which 
have a charm and atmosphere that put them among the 
choicest of the period. Frank R. Stockton will be 
long remembered for his ingenious stories, which, 
though not great, are yet entertaining and skillfully 
done. The list of more recent writers of short-stories 
would be long indeed, containing such well-known 
names as Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman, H. C. Bunner, 
Thomas Nelson Page, Richard Harding Davis, 
Thomas A. Janvier, Alice Brown, Margaret Deland, 
Owen Wister, and Hamlin Garland. Of late, Mr. 
Jack London has made himself widely known for his 
fearlessly straightforward stories; and William Sid- 



xxx INTRODUCTION 

ney Porter (O. Henry) has deeply impressed the read- 
ing public. 

The American short-story of the present day is 
notably excellent in unity and construction. Hun- 
dreds of authors are producing month after month, 
short-stories that, whatever their faults may be, sel- 
dom fail in securing the totality of impression which 
has for eighty years been acknowledged as the sine 
qua non in this form of art. There are bad stories 
without number, yet it cannot be said that any but the 
weakest and most hopeless writers are deficient in 
consciousness of literary form. Whether the present 
intense interest in the drama will tend to a decrease 
in the production of short-stories in America, it is 
difficult to say; but it is not unlikely that for a good 
many years yet the United States will enjoy its pre- 
eminence in a type of fiction that by inception and 
cultivation it has made indisputably its own. 



MODERN 
SHORT-STORIES 



Modern Short Stories 

• THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 

By Edgar Allan Poe 

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as 
I best could; but, when he ventured upon insult, I 
vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature 
of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave 
utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged ; 
this was a point definitely settled — but the very defmi- 
tiveness with Avhich it was resolved precluded the 
idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with 
impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution 
overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when 
the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him 
who has done the wrong. 

It must be understood, that neither by word nor 
deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good- 
will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his 
face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was 
at the thought of his immolation. 

He had a weak point — this Fortunato — although in 
other regards he was a man to be respected and even 
feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in 



1 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For 
the most part their enthusiasm is adapted to suit the 
time and opportunity — to practice imposture upon the 
British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and 
gemmary Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack 
— but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In 
this respect I did not differ from him materially: I 
was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought 
largely whenever I could. 

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme 
madness of the carnival season, that I encountered 
my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, 
for he had been drinking much. The man wore mot- 
ley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and 
his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. 
I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should 
never have done wringing his hand. 

I said to him : "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily 
met! How remarkably well you are looking to-day! 
But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amon- 
tillado, and I have my doubts." 

"How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Im- 
possible! And in the middle of the carnival!" 

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly 
enough to pay the full Amontillado price without con- 
sulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, 
and I was fearful of losing a bargain." 

"Amontillado!" 

"I have my doubts." 

"Amontillado!" 

"And I must satisfy them," 



THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 3 

"Amontillado !" 

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. 
If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell 
me — ■ — " 

"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." 

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a 
match for your own." 

"Come, let us go." 

"Whither?" 

"To your vaults." 

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good 
nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Lu- 
chesi " 

"I have no engagement; — come." 

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the 
severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. 
The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted 
with niter." 

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely noth- 
ing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. 
And, as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry 
from Amontillado." 

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my 
arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a 
roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to 
hurry me to my palazzo. 

There were no attendants at home; they had ab- 
sconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had 
told them that I should not return until the morning, 
and had given them explicit orders not to stir from 
the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, 



4 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, 
as soon as my back was turned. 

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and, giv- 
ing one to Fortunato, bowed him through several 
suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. 
I passed down a long and winding staircase, request- 
ing him to be cautious as he followed. We came at 
length to the foot of the descent, and stood together 
on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Mon- 
tresors. 

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells 
upon his cap jingled as he strode. 

"The pipe?;' said he. 

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white 
web work which gleams from these cavern walls." 

He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with 
two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. 

"Niter?" he asked, at length. 

"Niter," I replied. "How long have you had that 
cough ?" 

"Ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! 
ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh!" 

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for 
many minutes. 

"It is nothing," he said, at last. 

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; 
your health is precious. You are rich, respected, ad- 
mired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You 
are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We 
will go back ; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsi- 
ble. Besides, there is Luchesi " 



THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 5 

"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; 
it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." 

'True — true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no in- 
tention of alarming you unnecessarily; but you should 
use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will 
defend us from the damps." 

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I 
drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon 
the mould. 

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. 

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and 
nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. 

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around 
us." 

"And I to your long life." 

He again took my arm, and we proceeded. 

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive." 

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and 
numerous family." 

"I forgot your arms." 

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure ; the foot 
crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded 
in the heel." 

"And the motto?" 

"Nemo me impune lacessit" 

"Good !" he said. 

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. 
My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had 
passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and 
puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of 



6 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made 
bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. 

"The niter!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs 
like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's 
bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. 
Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your 
cough " 

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But, first, 
another draught of the Medoc." 

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He 
emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce 
light. He laughed and threw the bottle upward with 
a gesticulation I did not understand. 

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the move- 
ment — a grotesque one. 

"You do not comprehend ?" he said. 

"Not I," I replied. 

"Then you are not of the brotherhood. ,, 

"How?" 

"You are not of the masons." 

"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." 

"You ? Impossible ! A mason !" 

"A mason," I replied. 

"A sign," he said. 

"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from 
beneath the folds of my roquelaire. 

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. 
"But let us proceed to the Amontillado." 

"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the 
cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned 
upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of 



THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 7 

the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low- 
arches, descended, passed on, and, descending again, 
arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the 
air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. 

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared 
another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with 
human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the 
fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides 
of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this 
manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown 
down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming 
at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall 
thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we per- 
ceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, 
in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to 
have been constructed for no especial use within it- 
self, but formed merely the interval between two of 
the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and 
was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of 
solid granite. 

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull 
torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. 
Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to 
see. 

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As 
for Luchesi " 

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he 
stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immedi- 
ately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the 
extremity of the niche, and finding his progress ar- 
rested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A mo- 



8 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

ment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In 
its surface were two iron staples, distant from each 
other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these 
depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. 
Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the 
work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too 
much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I 
stepped back from the recess. 

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you can- 
not help feeling the niter. Indeed it is very damp. 
Once more let me implore you to return. No ? Then 
I must positively leave you. But I must first render 
you all the little attentions in my power." 

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet 
recovered from his astonishment. 

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado." 

As I said these words I busied myself among the 
pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throw- 
ing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of build- 
ing stone and mortar. With these materials and with 
the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up 
the entrance of the niche. 

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when 
I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had 
in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication 
I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth 
of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. 
There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid 
the second tier, and the third, and the fourth ; and then 
I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise 
lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might 



THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 9 

hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my 
labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last 
the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and fin- 
ished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the 
seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level 
with my breast. I again paused, and, holding the flam- 
beaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays 
upon the figure within. 

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting 
suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed 
to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I 
hesitated — I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I be- 
gan to grope with it about the recess ; but the thought 
of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon 
the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I 
reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him 
who clamored. I reechoed — I aided — I surpassed 
them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the 
clamorer grew still. 

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing 
to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and 
the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and 
the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be 
fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight ; I 
placed it partially in its destined position. But now 
there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected 
the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad 
voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that 
of the noble Fortunato. The voice said — 

"Ha! ha! ha! — he! he! — a very good joke indeed — 
an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh 



io EDGAR ALLAN POE 

about it at the palazzo — he ! he ! he ! — over our wine — 
he! he! he!" 

"The Amontillado!" I said. 

"He! he! he! — he! he! he; — yes, the Amontillado. 
But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting 
us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? 
Let us be gone." 

"Yes," I said, "let us be gone." 

"For the love of God, Montresor!" 

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" 

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. 
I grew impatient. I called aloud : 

"Fortunato!" 

No answer. I called again : 

"Fortunato !" 

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the re- 
maining aperture and let it fall within. There came 
forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart 
grew sick — on account of the dampness of the cata- 
combs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I 
forced the last stone into its position ; I plastered it up. 
Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart 
of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has 
disturbed them. In pace requiescat! 



Edgar Allan Poe 

It is perhaps unnecessary to dwell upon the history 
of Edgar Allan Poe, since the details of his unfor- 
tunate life are well known. It may not be inappropri- 
ate, however, to consider some of the facts of his 



THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO II 

literary career in connection with his short-stones. In 
1833, when he was in pressing need, and uncertain as 
to his choice of a profession, he won a prize of a hun- 
dred dollars in a short-story contest conducted by the 
Saturday Visiter (sic), a literary weekly of Baltimore. 
Poe sent in six stories, called Tales of the Folio Club, 
in imitation of Hoffmann's Tales of the Serapioris 
Brotherhood* The prize was taken by A Manuscript 
Found in a Bottle, a tale of terrible adventure, of a 
type not at all uncommon at the time. Its exalted 
style and vivid imagery are what render it superior to 
the ordinary wild tales of the period. 

During the next year or so, Poe wrote Berenice, 
Morella, Hans Pfaall, and The Assignation. Of these 
Berenice is the most significant. It reveals a logical 
progress and a firm construction which were real de- 
partures from the loose and rambling methods of 
Poe's predecessors. The centralization of motive, the 
emphasis on climax, and the sureness and inevitable- 
ness of movement produce the totality of effect which 
is now held to characterize the best modern short- 
stories. Berenice, in fact, shows the arrival of the 
modern American short-story in the form which has 
for eighty years been so successfully developed. To 
realize what its (somewhat over-conscious) care in 
structure meant to the American short-story, one has 
only to compare Berenice with Austin's Peter Rugg, 
or with some other of the best magazine tales of the 

*E. T. A. Hoffmann (1776-1822), German musician and 
writer; one of the strongest influences in the romanticism oi 
the early nineteenth century. 



12 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

day. Poe knew exactly what he was doing; he had 
thought out the theory of the short-story so clearly 
that he could say decisively, "The purpose of the short 
narrative should be a certain unique or single effect" — 
totality, as we call it now. Berenice was printed in 
1835. It is worth noting that Gautier's La Morte 
Amour euse, startlingly like Poe's work in spirit and 
method, appeared in 1836. Since that time the in- 
fluence of Poe in France has been very great. 

Poe continued for many years to contribute his 
painstaking stories to the annuals and magazines, re- 
ceiving pitifully small rewards. Most of his tales are 
sufficiently familiar to the general reader. It is worth 
while, however, to call attention to the influence of 
Hoffmann and other German romanticists upon the 
work of Poe. Romanticism was in the air, of course; 
but a more direct influence can be traced. Hoffmann's 
Phantasie stuck e are paralleled in Poe's Phantasy 
Pieces; Hoffmann's Serapionsbriider, as has already 
been noted, served as a model for Poe's Folio Club. 
Hoffmann's The Entail and The Elixir of the Devil 
are similar to Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher 
and William Wilson. A full discussion of Poe's re- 
lation to Hoffmann can be found in Palmer Cobb's 
pamphlet, The Influence of E. T. A. Hoffmann on the 
Tales of Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Cask of Amontillado is given here because it 
is an almost perfect specimen of Poe's conscious art. 
It well repays a minute study of its technique, which 
is sufficiently unconcealed to admit of examination. 

The student should read one of Hoffmann's ro- 



THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 13 

mantic stories, such as The Entail, or The Sandman; 
also one of Gautier's stories, morbid though they are ; 
and, for comparison of method, Austin's Peter Rugg. 



bibliography 
Edgar Allan Poe : 

Woodberry, G. E. : The Life of Edgar Allan Poe. 
Harrison, James A. : The Life of Edgar Allan Poe. 
Ransome, Arthur: Edgar Allan Poe. 
Trent, W. P., and Erskine, John: Great American 

Writers, pp. 85-108. 
Wendell, Barrett: A Literary History of America, 

p. 204-218. 
Brownell, W. C. : American Prose Masters, pp. 205- 

267. 
Baudelaire. P. C. : Edgar Poe, sa vie et ses ceuvres 

(In: E. A. Poe, Histoires extraordinaires). 
Cobb, Palmer : The Influence of E. T. A. Hoffmann 

on the Tales of Edgar Allan Poe. 
Stories by Poe : 
The Fall of the House of Usher. 
The Pit and the Pendulum. 
The Tell-tale Heart. 
The Mystery of Marie Roget. 
The Gold Bug. 
The Purloined Letter. 
The Black Cat. 
The Oblong Box. 

The Manuscript Found in a Bottle. 
A Descent into the Maelstrom. 
Ligeia. 

The Murders in the Rue Morgue. 
William Wilson. 



14 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

The Masque of the Red Death. 

The Oval Portrait. 

The Man of the Crowd. 

Berenice. 

The Assignation. 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE* 
By Hamlin Garland 

The nearer the train drew toward La Crosse, the 
soberer the little group of "vets" became. On the 
long way from New Orleans they had beguiled tedium 
with jokes and friendly chaff; or with planning with 
elaborate detail what they were going to do now, after 
the war. A long journey, slowly, irregularly, yet per- 
sistently pushing northward. When they entered on 
Wisconsin territory they gave a cheer, and another 
when they reached Madison, but after that they sank 
into a dumb expectancy. Comrades dropped off at one 
or two points beyond, until there were only four or 
five left who were bound for La Crosse County. 

Three of them were gaunt and brown, the fourth 
was gaunt and pale, with signs of fever and ague upon 
him. One had a great scar down his temple, one 
limped, and they all had unnaturally large, bright eyes, 
showing emaciation. There were no bands greeting 
them at the station, no banks of gayly dressed ladies 
waving handkerchiefs and shouting "Bravo!" as they 
came in on the caboose of a freight train into the 

*From Main Travelled Roads; copyright, 1891, by the Arena 
Publishing Company; copyright, 1893, 1895, by Hamlin Garland. 
Used by permission of author and publishers. 

IS 



16 HAMLIN GARLAND 

towns that had cheered and blared at them on their 
way to war. As they looked out or stepped upon 
the platform for a moment, while the train stood at 
the station, the loafers looked at them indifferently. 
Their blue coats, dusty and grimy, were too familiar 
now to excite notice, much less a friendly word. They 
were the last of the army to return, and the loafers 
were surfeited with such sights. 

The train jogged forward so slowly that it seemed 
likely to be midnight before they should reach La 
Crosse. The little squad grumbled and swore, but 
it was no use; the train would not hurry, and, as a 
matter of fact, it was nearly two o'clock when the 
engine whistled "down brakes." 

All of the group were farmers, living in districts 
several miles out of the town, and all were poor. 

"Now, boys," said Private Smith, he of the fever 
and ague, "we are landed in La Crosse in the night. 
We've got to stay somewhere till mornin'. Now I 
ain't got no two dollars to waste on a hotel. I've got 
a wife and children, so I'm goin' to roost on a bench 
and take the cost of a bed out of my hide." 

"Same here," put in one of the other men. "Hide'll 
grow on again, dollars'll come hard. It's goin' to be 
mighty hot skirmishin' to find a dollar these days." 

"Don't think they'll be a deputation of citizens 
waitin' to 'scort us to a hotel, eh?" said another. His 
sarcasm was too obvious to require an answer. 

Smith went on, "Then at daybreak we'll start for 
home — at least, I will." 

"Well, I'll be dummed if I'll take two dollars out 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE i? 

o' my hide/' one of the younger men said. "I'm goin' 
to a hotel, ef I don't never lay up a cent." 

"That'll do f'r you," said Smith; "but if you had 
a wife an' three young uns dependin' on yeh — " 

"Which I ain't, thank the Lord! and don't intend 
havin' while the court knows itself." 

The station was deserted, chill, and dark, as they 
came into it at exactly a quarter to two in the morn- 
ing. Lit by the oil lamps that flared a dull red light 
over the dingy benches, the waiting-room was not an 
inviting place. The younger man went off to look up 
a hotel, while the rest remained and prepared to camp 
down on the floor and benches. Smith was attended 
to tenderly by the other men, who spread their blan- 
kets on the bench for him, and, by robbing themselves, 
made quite a comfortable bed, though the narrowness 
of the bench made his sleeping precarious. 

It was chill, though August, and the two men, sit- 
ting with bowed heads, grew stiff with cold and weari- 
ness, and were forced to rise now and again and walk 
about to warm their stiffened limbs. It did not occur 
to them, probably, to contrast their coming home with 
their going forth, or with the coming home of the 
generals, colonels, or even captains — but to Private 
Smith, at any rate, there came a sickness at heart 
almost deadly as he lay there on his hard bed and 
went over his situation. 

In the deep of the night, lying on a board in the 
town where he had enlisted three years ago, all elation 
and enthusiasm gone out of him, he faced the fact 
that with the joy of home-coming was already min- 



18 HAMLIN GARLAND 

gled the bitter juice of care. He saw himself sick, 
worn out, taking up the work on his half-cleared farm, 
the inevitable mortgage standing ready with open jaw 
to swallow half his earnings. He had given three 
years of his life for a mere pittance of pay, and 
now! — 

Morning dawned at last, slowly, with a pale yellow 
dome of light rising silently above the bluffs, which 
stand, like some huge storm-devastated castle, just east 
of the city. Out to the left the great river swept on 
its massive yet silent way to the south. Blue jays called 
across the water from hillside to hillside through the 
clear, beautiful air, and hawks began to skim the tops 
of the hills. The older men were astir early, but Pri- 
vate Smith had fallen at last into a sleep, and they 
went out without waking him. He lay on his knap- 
sack, his gaunt face turned toward the ceiling, his 
hands clasped on his breast, with a curious pathetic 
effect of weakness and appeal. 

An engine switching near woke him at last, and he 
slowly sat up and stared about. He looked out of the 
window and saw that the sun was lightening the hills 
across the river. He rose and brushed his hair as 
well as he could, folded his blankets up, and went out 
to find his companions. They stood gazing silently at 
the river and at the hills. 

"Looks natcher'l, don't it?" they said, as he came 
out. 

"That's What it does," he replied. "An' it looks 
good. D' yeh see that peak?" He pointed at a beau- 
tiful symmetrical peak, rising like a slightly truncated 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 19 

cone, so high that it seemed the very highest of them 
all. It was touched by the morning sun and it glowed 
like a beacon, and a light scarf of gray morning fog 
was rolling up its shadowed side. 

"My farm's just beyond that. Now, if I can only 
ketch a ride, we'll be home by dinner-time." 

"I'm talkin' about breakfast," said one of the others. 

"I guess it's one more meal o' hardtack f'r me," 
said Smith. 

They foraged around, and finally found a restaur- 
ant with a sleepy old German behind the counter, and 
procured some coffee, which they drank to wash down 
their hardtack. 

"Time'll come," said Smith, holding up a piece by 
the corner, "when this'll be a curiosity." 

"I hope to God it will ! I bet I've chawed hardtack 
enough to shingle every house in the coolly. I've 
chawed it when my lampers was down, and when they 
wasn't. I've took it dry, soaked, and mashed. I've 
had it wormy, musty, sour, and blue-mouldy. I've had 
it in little bits and big bits ; 'fore coffee an' after coffee. 
I'm ready f'r a change. I'd like t' git holt jest about 
now o' some of the hot biscuits my wife c'n make 
when she lays herself out f'r company." 

"Well, if you set there gabblin,' you'll never see yer 
wife." 

"Come on," said Private Smith. "Wait a moment, 
boys; less take suthin'. It's on me." He led them to 
the rusty tiir dipper which hung on a nail beside the 
wooden water-pail, and they grinned and drank. Then 
shouldering their blankets and muskets, which they 



20 HAMLIN GARLAND 

were "takin' home to the boys," they struck out on 
their last march. 

"They called that coffee Jayvy," grumbled one of 
them, "but it never went by the road where govern- 
ment Jayvy resides. I reckon I know coffee from 
peas." 

They kept together on the road along the turnpike, 
and up the winding road by the river, which they 
followed for some miles. The river was very lovely, 
curving down along its sandy beds, pausing now and 
then under broad basswood trees, or running in dark, 
swift, silent currents under tangles of wild grapevines, 
and drooping alders, and haw trees. At one of these 
lovely spots the three vets sat down on the thick green 
sward to rest, "on Smith's account." The leaves of 
the trees were as fresh and green as in June, the jays 
called cheery greetings to them, and kingfishers darted 
to and fro with swooping, noiseless flight. 

"I tell yeh, boys, this knocks the swamps of Louee- 
siana into kingdom come." 

"You bet. All they c'n raise down there is snakes, 
niggers, and p'rticler hell." 

"An' fightin' men," put in the older man. 

"An' fightin' men. If I had a good hook an' line 
I'd sneak a pick'rel out o' that pond. Say, remember 
that time I shot that alligator — " 

"I guess we'd better be crawlin' along," interrupted 
Smith, rising and shouldering his knapsack, with con- 
siderable effort, which he tried to hide. 

"Say, Smith, lemme give you a lift on that." 

"I guess I c'n manage," said Smith, grimly. 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 21 

"Course. But, yo' see, I may not have a chance 
right off to pay yeh back for the times you've carried 
my gun and hull caboodle. Say, now, gimme that gun, 
anyway." 

"All right, if yeh feel like it, Jim," Smith replied, 
and they trudged along doggedly in the sun, which 
was getting higher and hotter each half-mile. 

"Ain't it queer there ain't no teams comin' along," 
said Smith, after a long silence. 

"Well, no, seein's it's Sunday." 

"By jinks, that's a fact. It is Sunday. I'll git 
home in time f 'r dinner, sure !" he exulted. "She don't 
hev dinner usially till about one on Sundays." And he 
fell into a muse, in which he smiled. 

"Well, I'll git home jest about six o'clock, jest about 
when the boys are milkin' the cows," said old Jim 
Canby. "I'll step into the barn, an' then I'll say: 
'Utah! why ain't this milkin' done before this time o' 
day?' An' then won't they yell!" he added, slapping 
his thigh in great glee. 

Smith went on. "I'll jest go up the path. Old 
Rover'll come down the road to meet me. He won't 
bark; he'll know me, an' he'll come down waggin' his 
tail an' showin' his teeth. That's his way of laughin'. 
An' so I'll walk up to the kitchen door, an' I'll say, 
'Dinner f 'r a hungry man !' An' then she'll jump up, 
an — > 

He couldn't go on. His voice choked at the thought 
of it. Saunders, the third man, hardly uttered a word, 
but walked silently behind the others. He had lost his 
wife the first year he was in the army. She died of 



22 HAMLIN GARLAND 

pneumonia, caught in the autumn rains while working 
in the fields on his place. 

They plodded along till at last they came to a part- 
ing of the ways. To the right the road continued up 
the main valley ; to the left it went over the big ridge. 

"Well, boys," began Smith, as they grounded their 
muskets and looked away up the valley, "here's where 
we shake hands. We've marched together a good many 
miles, an' now I s'pose we're done." 

"Yes, I don't think we'll do any more of it f'r a 
while. I don't want to, I know." 

"I hope I'll see yeh once in a while, boys, to talk 
over old times." 

"Of course," said Saunders, whose voice trembled a 
little, too. "It ain't exactly like dyin'." They all found 
it hard to look at each other. 

"But we'd ought'r go home with you," said Canby. 
"You'll never climb that ridge with all them things on 
yer back." 

"Oh, I'm all right ! Don't worry about me. Every 
step takes me nearer home, yeh see. Well, good-by, 
boys." 

They shook hands. "Good-by. Good luck !" 

"Same to you. Lemme know how you find things 
at home." 

"Good-by." 

"Good-by." 

He turned once before they passed out of sight, and 
waved his cap, and they did the same, and all yelled. 
Then all marched away with their long, steady, loping, 
veteran step. The solitary climber in blue walked on 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 23 

for a time, with his mind filled with the kindness of 
his comrades, and musing upon the many wonderful 
days they had had together in camp and field. 

He thought of his chum, Billy Tripp. Poor Billy! 
A "minie" ball fell into his breast one day, fell wailing 
like a cat, and tore a great ragged hole in his heart. 
He looked forward to a sad scene with Billy's mother 
and sweetheart. They would want to know all about 
it. He tried to recall all that Billy had said, and the 
particulars of it, but there was little to remember, just 
that wild wailing sound high in the air, a dull slap, a 
short, quick, expulsive groan, and the boy lay with his 
face in the dirt in the ploughed field they were march- 
ing across. 

That was all. But all the scenes he had since been 
through had not dimmed the horror, the terror of that 
moment, when his boy comrade fell, with only a breath 
between a laugh and a death-groan. Poor handsome 
Billy! Worth millions of dollars was his young life. 

These somber recollections gave way at length to 
more cheerful feelings as he began to approach his 
home coolly. The fields and houses grew familiar, and 
in one or two he was greeted by people seated in the 
doorways. But he was in no mood to talk, and pushed 
on steadily, though he stopped and accepted a drink 
of milk once at the well-side of a neighbor. 

The sun was burning hot on that slope, and his step 
grew slower, in spite of his iron resolution. He sat 
down several times to rest. Slowly he crawled up the 
rough, reddish-brown road, which wound along the 
hillside, under great trees, through dense groves of 



24 HAMLIN GARLAND 

jack oaks, with tree-tops far below him on his left 
hand, and the hills far above him on his right. He 
crawled along like some minute, wingless variety 
of fly. 

He ate some hardtack, sauced with wild berries, 
when he reached the summit of the ridge, and sat 
there for some time, looking down into his home 
coolly. 

Somber, pathetic figure! His wide, round, gray 
eyes gazing down into the beautiful valley, seeing and 
not seeing, the splendid cloud-shadows sweeping over 
the western hills and across the green and yellow 
wheat far below. His head drooped forward on his 
palm, his shoulders took on a tired stoop, his cheek- 
bones showed painfully. An observer might have said, 
"He is looking down upon his own grave." 



II 



Sunday comes in a western wheat harvest with 
such sweet and sudden relaxation to man and beast 
that it would be holy for that reason, if for no other, 
and Sundays are usually fair in harvest-time. As one 
goes out into the field in the hot morning sunshine, 
with no sound abroad save the crickets and the in- 
describably pleasant silken rustling of the ripened 
grain, the reaper and the very sheaves in the stubble 
seem to be resting, dreaming. 

Around the house, in the shade of the trees, the 
men sit, smoking, dozing, or reading the papers, while 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE ' 25 

the women, never resting, move about at the house- 
work. The men eat on Sundays about the same as on 
other days, and breakfast is no sooner over and out 
of the way than dinner begins. 

But at the Smith farm there were no men dozing 
or reading. Mrs. Smith was alone with her three 
children, Mary, nine, Tommy, six, and little Ted, just 
past four. Her farm, rented to a neighbor, lay at the 
head of a coolly or narrow gully, made at some far- 
off post-glacial period by the vast and angry floods 
of water which gullied these tremendous furrows in 
the level prairie — furrows so deep that undisturbed 
portions of the original level rose like hills on either 
side, rose to quite considerable mountains. 

The chickens wakened her as usual that Sabbath 
morning from dreams of her absent husband, from 
whom she had not heard for weeks. The shadows 
drifted over the hills, down the slopes, across the 
wheat, and up the opposite wall in leisurely way, as if, 
being Sunday, they could take it easy also. The fowls 
clustered about the housewife as she went out into 
the yard. Fuzzy little chickens swarmed out from the 
coops, where their clucking and perpetually dis- 
gruntled mothers tramped about, petulantly thrusting 
their heads through the spaces between the slats. 

A cow called in a deep, musical bass, and a calf 
answered from a little pen near by, and a pig scurried 
guiltily out of the cabbages. Seeing all this, seeing 
the pig in the cabbages, the tangle of grass in the 
garden, the broken fence which she had mended again 
and again — the little woman, hardly more than a girl, 



26 HAMLIN GARLAND 

sat down and cried. The bright Sabbath morning was 
only a mockery without him ! 

A few years ago they had bought this farm, paying 
part, mortgaging the rest in the usual way. Edward 
Smith was a man of terrible energy. He worked 
"nights and Sundays," as the saying goes, to clear the 
farm of its brush and of its insatiate mortgage! In 
the midst of his Herculean struggle came the call for 
volunteers, and with the grim and unselfish devotion 
to his country which made the Eagle Brigade able to 
"whip its weight in wild-cats," he threw down his 
scythe and grub-axe, turned his cattle loose, and be- 
came a blue-coated cog in a vast machine for killing 
men, and not thistles. While the millionaire sent his 
money to England for safe-keeping, this man, with 
his girl-wife and three babies, left them on a mort- 
gaged farm, and went away to fight for an idea. It 
was foolish, but it was sublime for all that. 

That was three years before, and the young wife, 
sitting on the well-curb on this bright Sabbath harvest 
morning, was righteously rebellious. It seemed to her 
that she had borne her share of the country's sorrow. 
Two brothers had been killed, the renter in whose 
hands her husband had left the farm had proved a 
villain; one year the farm had been without crops, 
and now the over-ripe grain was waiting the tardy 
hand of the neighbor who had rented it, and who was 
cutting his own grain first. 

About six weeks before, she had received a letter 
saying, "We'll be discharged in a little while." But 
no other word had come from him. She had seen 



fHE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 27 

by the papers that his army was being discharged, and 
from day to day other soldiers slowly percolated in 
blue streams back into the State and county, but still 
her hero did not return. 

Each week she had told the children that he was 
coming, and she had watched the road so long that 
watching had become unconscious; and as she stood 
at the well, or by the kitchen door, her eyes were fixed 
unthinkingly on the road that wound down the coolly. 

Nothing wears on the human soul like waiting. If 
the stranded mariner, searching the sun-bright seas, 
could once give up hope of a ship, that horrible grind- 
ing on his brain would cease. It was this waiting, 
hoping, on the edge of despair, that gave Emma Smith 
no rest. 

Neighbors said, with kind intentions: "He's sick, 
maybe, an' can't start north just yet. He'll come along 
one o' these days." 

"Why don't he write?" was her question, which 
silenced them all. This Sunday morning it seemed to 
her as if she could not stand it longer. The house 
seemed intolerably lonely. So she dressed the little ones 
in their best calico dresses and home-made jackets, 
and, closing up the house, set off down the coolly to 
old Mother Gray's. 

"Old Widder Gray" lived at the "mouth of the 
coolly." She was a widow woman with a large family 
of stalwart boys and laughing girls. She was the 
visible incarnation of hospitality and optimistic pov- 
erty. With western open-heartedness she fed every 
mouth that asked food of her, and worked herself 



28 HAMLIN GARLAND 

to death as cheerfully as her girls danced in the neigh- 
borhood harvest dances. 

She waddled down the path to meet Mrs. Smith 
with a broad smile on her face. 

"Oh, you little dears ! Come right to your granny. 
Gimme a kiss! Come right in, Mis' Smith. How 
are yeh, anyway? Nice mornin', ain't it? Come in 
an' set down. Everything's in a clutter, but that won't 
scare you any." 

She led the way into the best room, a sunny, square 
room, carpeted with a faded and patched rag carpet, 
and papered with white-and-green-striped wallpaper, 
where a few faded effigies of dead members of the 
family hung in variously sized oval walnut frames. 
The house resounded with singing, laughter, whist- 
ling, tramping of heavy boots, and riotous scufflings. 
Half-grown boys came to the door and crooked their 
fingers at the children, who ran out, and were soon 
heard in the midst of the fun. 

"Don't s'pose you've heard from Ed?" Mrs. Smith 
shook her head. "He'll turn up some day, when you 
ain't lookin' for 'm." The good old soul had said that 
so many times that poor Mrs. Smith derived no com- 
fort from it any longer. 

"Liz heard from Al the other day. He's comin' 
some day this week. Anyhow, they expect him." 

"Did he say anything of — " 

"No, he didn't," Mrs. Gray admitted. "But then 
it was only a short letter, anyhow. Al ain't much for 
writin', anyhow. — 'But come out and see my new 
cheese. I tell yeh, I don't believe I ever had better 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 29 

luck in my life. If Ed should come, I want you should 
take him up a piece of this cheese." 

It was beyond human nature to resist the influence 
of that noisy, hearty, loving household, and in the 
midst of the singing and laughing the wife forgot 
her anxiety, for the time at least, and laughed and 
sang with the rest. 

About eleven o'clock a wagon-load more drove up 
to the door, and Bill Gray, the widow's oldest son, 
and his whole family, from Sand Lake Coolly, piled 
out amid a good-natured uproar. Every one talked 
at once, except Bill, who sat in the wagon with his 
wrists on his knees, a straw in his mouth, and an 
amused twinkle in his blue eyes. 

"Ain't heard nothin' o' Ed, I s'pose?" he asked in 
a kind of bellow. Mrs. Smith shook her head. Bill, 
with a delicacy very striking in such a great giant, 
rolled his quid in his mouth, and said: 

"Didn't know but you had. I hear two or three of 
the Sand Lake boys are comin'. Left New Orleenes 
some time this week. Didn't write nothin' about Ed, 
but no news is good news in such cases, mother always 
says." 

"Well, go put out yer team," said Mrs. Gray, "an* 
go 'n bring me in some taters, an', Sim, you go see if 
you c'n find some corn. Sadie, you put on the water 
to bile. Come now, hustle yer boots, all o' yeh. If 
I feed this yer crowd, we've got to have some raw ma- 
terials. If y' think I'm goin' to feed yeh on pie — 
you're jest mightily mistaken." 

The children went off into the fields, the girls put 



30 HAMLIN GARLAND 

dinner on to boil, and then went to change their dresses 
and fix their hair. "Somebody might come," they 
said. 

"Land sakes, / hope not! I don't know where in 
time I'd set 'em, 'less they'd eat at the second table," 
Mrs. Gray laughed, in pretended dismay. 

The two older boys, who had served their time in 
the army, lay out on the grass before the house, and 
whittled and talked desultorily about the war and the 
crops, and planned buying a threshing-machine. The 
older girls and Mrs. Smith helped enlarge the table 
and put on the dishes, talking all the time in that 
cheery, incoherent, and meaningful way a group of 
such women have, — a conversation to be taken for its 
spirit rather than for its letter, though Mrs. Gray at 
last got the ear of them all and dissertated at length 
on girls. 

"Girls in love ain't no use in the whole blessed 
week," she said. "Sundays they're a-lookin' down the 
road, expectin' he'll come. Sunday afternoons they 
can't think o' nothin' else, 'cause he's here. Monday 
mornin's they're sleepy and kind o' dreamy and 
slimpsy, and good f'r nothin' on Tuesday and Wed- 
nesday. Thursday they git absent-minded, an' begin 
to look off toward Sunday agin, an' mope aroun' and 
let the dishwater git cold, right under their noses. 
Friday they break dishes, an' go off in the best room 
an' snivel, an' look out o' the winder. Saturdays they 
have queer spurts o' workin' like all p'ssessed, an' 
spurts o' frizzin' their hair. An' Sunday they begin 
it all over agin." 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 31 

The girls giggled and blushed, all through this tirade 
from their mother, their broad faces and powerful 
frames anything but suggestive of lackadaisical senti- 
ment But Mrs. Smith said : 

"Now, Mrs. Gray, I hadn't ought to stay to dinner. 
You've got — " 

"Now you set right down! If any of them girls' 
beaux comes, they'll have to take what's left, that's 
all. They ain't s'posed to have much appetite, nohow. 
No, you're goin' to stay if they starve, an' they ain't 
no danger o' that." 

At one o'clock the long table was piled with boiled 
potatoes, cords of boiled corn on the cob, squash and 
pumpkin pies, hot biscuits, sweet pickles, bread and 
butter, and honey. Then one of the girls took down 
a conch-shell from a nail, and, going to the door, blew 
a long, fine, free blast, that showed there was no weak- 
ness of lungs in her ample chest. 

Then the children came out of the forest of corn, 
out of the creek, out of the loft of the barn, and out 
of the garden. 

"They come to their feed f'r all the world jest like 
the pigs when y' holler 'poo-ee!' See 'em scoot!" 
laughed Mrs. Gray, every wrinkle on her face shining 
with delight. 

The men shut up their jack-knives, and surrounded 
the horse-trough to souse their faces in the cold, hard 
water, and in a few moments the table was filled with 
a merry crowd, and a row of wistful-eyed youngsters 
circled the kitchen wall, where they stood first on one 
leg and then on the other, in impatient hunger. 



32 HAMLIN GARLAND 

"Now pitch in, Mrs. Smith," said Mrs. Gray, pre- 
siding over the table. "You know these men critters. 
They'll eat every grain of it, if yeh give 'em a chance. 
I swan, they're made o' India-rubber, their stomachs 
is, I know it." 

"Haf to eat to work," said Bill, gnawing a cob with 
a swift, circular motion that rivaled a corn-sheller in 
results. 

"More like workin' to eat," put in one of the girls, 
with a giggle. "More eat 'n work with you." 

"You needn't say anything, Net. Any one that'll eat 
seven ears — " 

"I didn't, no such thing. You piled your cobs on 
my plate." 

"That'll do to tell Ed Varney. It won't go down 
here where we know yeh." 

"Good land! Eat all yeh want! They's plenty 
more in the fiel's, but I can't afford to give you young 
uns tea. The tea is for us women-folks, and 'specially 
f'r Mis' Smith an' Bill's wife. We're a-goin' to tell 
fortunes by it." 

One by one the men filled up and shoved back, and 
one by one the children slipped into their places, and 
by two o'clock the women alone remained around the 
debris-covered table, sipping their tea and telling for- 
tunes. 

As they got well down to the grounds in the cup, 
they shook them with a circular motion in the hand, 
and then turned them bottom-side-up quickly in the 
saucer, then twirled them three or four times one way, 
and three or four times the other, during a breathless 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 33 

pause. Then Mrs. Gray lifted the cup, and, gazing 
into it with profound gravity, pronounced the im- 
pending fate. 

It must be admitted that, to a critical observer, she 
had abundant preparation for hitting close to the mark, 
as when she told the girls that "somebody was 
comin'." "It's a man," she went on gravely. "He is 
cross-eyed—" 

"Oh, you hush!" cried Nettie. 

"He has red hair, and is death on b'iled corn and 
hot biscuit." 

The others shrieked with delight. 

"But he's goin' to get the mitten, that red-headed 
feller is, for I see another feller comin' up behind 
him." 

"Oh, lemme see, lemme see!" cried Nettie. 

"Keep off," said the priestess, with a lofty gesture. 
"His hair is black. He don't eat so much, and he 
works more." 

The girls exploded in a shriek of laughter, and 
pounded their sister on the back. 

At last came Mrs. Smith's turn, and she was trem- 
bling with excitement as Mrs. Gray again composed 
her jolly face to what she considered a proper solem- 
nity of expression. 

"Somebody is comin' to you/' she said, after a long 
pause. "He's got a musket on his back. He's a 
soldier. He's almost here. See?" 

She pointed at two little tea-stems, which really 
formed a faint suggestion of a man with a musket on 
his back. He had climbed nearly to the edge of the 



34 HAMLIN GARLAND 

cup. Mrs. Smith grew pale with excitement. She 
trembled so she could hardly hold the cup in her hand 
as she gazed into it. 

"It's Ed," cried the old woman. "He's on the way- 
home. Heavens an' earth. There he is now!" She 
turned and waved her hand out toward the road. They 
rushed to the door to look where she pointed. 

A man in a blue coat, with a musket on his back, 
was toiling slowly up the hill on the sun-bright, dusty 
road, toiling slowly, with bent head half hidden by a 
heavy knapsack. So tired he seemed that walking was 
indeed a process of falling. So eager to get home he 
would not stop, would not look aside, but plodded on, 
amid the cries of the locusts, the welcome of the crick- 
ets, and the rustle of the yellow wheat. Getting back 
to God's country, and his wife and babies ! 

Laughing, crying, trying to call him and the chil- 
dren at the same time, the little wife, almost hysterical, 
snatched her hat and ran out into the yard. But the 
soldier had disappeared over the hill into the hollow 
beyond, and, by the time she had found the children, 
he was too far away for her voice to reach him. And, 
besides, she was not sure it was her husband, for he 
had not turned his head at their shouts. This seemed 
so strange. Why didn't he stop to rest at his old neigh- 
bor's house ? Tortured by hope and doubt, she hurried 
up the coolly as fast as she could push the baby wagon, 
the blue-coated figure just ahead pushing steadily, 
silently forward up the coolly. 

When the excited, panting little group came in sight 
of the gate they saw the blue-coated figure standing, 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 35 

leaning upon the rough rail fence, his chin on his 
palms, gazing at the empty house. His knapsack, can- 
teen, blankets, and musket lay upon the dusty grass 
at his feet. 

He was like a man lost in a dream. His wide, hun- 
gry eyes devoured the scene. The rough lawn, the 
little unpainted house, the field of clear yellow wheat 
behind it, down across which streamed the sun, now 
almost ready to touch the high hill to the west, the 
crickets crying merrily, a cat on the fence near by, 
dreaming, unmindful of the stranger in blue — 

How peaceful it all was. O God! How far re- 
moved from all camps, hospitals, battle lines. A little 
cabin in a Wisconsin coolly, but it was majestic in its 
peace. How did he ever leave it for those years of 
tramping, thirsting, killing? 

Trembling, weak with emotion, her eyes on the 
silent figure, Mrs. Smith hurried up to the fence. Her 
feet made no noise in the dust and grass, and they 
were close upon him before he knew of them. The 
oldest boy ran a little ahead. He will never forget 
that figure, that face. It will always remain as some- 
thing epic, that return of the private. He fixed his 
eyes on the pale face covered with a ragged beard. 

"Who are you, sir?" asked the wife, or, rather, 
started to ask, for he turned, stood a moment, and then 
cried : 

"Emma!" 

"Edward I" 

The children stood in a curious row to see their 
mother kiss this bearded, strange man, the elder girl 



36 HAMLIN GARLAND 

sobbing sympathetically with her mother. Illness had 
left the soldier partly deaf, and this added to the 
strangeness of his manner. 

But the youngest child stood away, even after the 
girl had recognized her father and kissed him. The 
man turned then to the baby, and said in a curiously 
unpaternal tone : 

"Come here, my little man; don't you know me?" 
But the baby backed away under the fence and stood 
peering at him critically. 

"My little man!" What meaning in those words! 
This baby seemed like some other woman's child, and 
not the infant he had left in his wife's arms. The war 
had come between him and his baby — he was only a 
strange man to him, with big eyes; a soldier, with 
mother hanging to his arm, and talking in a loud 
voice. 

"And this is Tom," the private said, drawing the 
oldest boy to him. "He'll come and see me. He 
knows his poor old pap when he comes home from 
the war." 

The mother heard the pain and reproach in his 
voice and hastened to apologize. 

"You've changed so, Ed. He can't know yeh. This 
is papa, Teddy; come and kiss him — Tom and Mary 
do. Come, won't you?" But Teddy still peered 
through the fence with solemn eyes, well out of reach. 
He resembled a half-wild kitten that hesitates, study- 
ing the tones of one's voice. 

"I'll fix him," said the soldier, and sat down to undo 
his knapsack, out of which he drew three enormous 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 37 

and very red apples. After giving one to each of the 
older children, he said : 

"Now I guess he'll come. Eh, my little man? 
Now come see your pap." 

Teddy crept slowly under the fence, assisted by the 
overzealous Tommy, and a moment later was kicking 
and squalling in his father's arms. Then they entered 
the house, intc< the sitting-room poor, bare, art-for- 
saken little room, too, with its rag carpet, its square 
clock, and its two or three chromos and pictures from 
Harper's Weekly pinned about. 

"Emma, I'm all tired out," said Private Smith, as 
he flung himself down on the carpet as he used to do, 
while his wife brought a pillow to put under his head, 
and the children stood about munching their apples. 

"Tommy, you run and get me a pan of chips, and 
Mary, you get the tea-kettle on, and I'll go and make 
some biscuit." 

And the soldier talked. Question after question he 
poured forth about the crops, the cattle, the renter, the 
neighbors. He slipped his heavy government brogan 
shoes off his poor, tired, blistered feet, and lay out with 
utter, sweet relaxation. He was a free man again, no 
longer a soldier under command. At supper he stopped 
once, listened and smiled. "That's old Spot. I know 
her voice. I s'pose that's her calf out there in the 
pen. I can't milk her to-night, though. I'm too tired. 
But, I tell you, I'd like a drink o' her milk. What's 
become of old Rove?" 

"He died last winter. Poisoned, I guess." There 
was a moment of sadness for them all. It was some 



38 HAMLIN GARLAND 

time before the husband spoke again, in a voice that 
trembled a little. 

"Poor old feller! He'd 'a' known me half a mile 
away. I expected him to come down the hill to meet 
me. It 'ud 'a' been more like comin' home if I could 
'a' seen him comin' down the road an' waggin' his tail, 
an' laughin' that way he has. I tell yeh, it kind o' took 
hold o' me to see the blinds down an' the house shut 
up." 

"But, yeh see, we — we expected you'd write again 
'fore you started. And then we thought we'd see you 
if you did come," she hastened to explain. 

"Well, I ain't worth a cent on writin'. Besides, it's 
just as well yeh didn't know when I was comin'. I tell 
you, it sounds good to hear them chickens out there, 
an' turkeys, an' the crickets. Do you know they don't 
have just the same kind o' crickets down South? 
Who's Sam hired t' help cut yer grain?" 

"The Ramsey boys." 

"Looks like a good crop ; but I'm afraid I won't do 
much gettin' it cut. This cussed fever an' ague has 
got me down pretty low. I don't know when I'll get 
rid of it. I'll bet I've took twenty-five pounds of qui- 
nine if I've taken a bit. Gimme another biscuit. I tell 
yeh, they taste good, Emma. I ain't had anything 
like it — Say, if you'd 'a' hear'd me braggin' to th' 
boys about your butter 'n' biscuits I'll bet your ears 'ud 
'a' burnt." 

The private's wife colored with pleasure. "Oh, 
you're always a-braggin' about your things. Every- 
body makes good butter." 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 39 

"Yes; old lady Snyder, for instance. " 

"Oh, well, she ain't to be mentioned. She's Dutch." 

"Or old Mis' Snively. One more cup o' tea, Mary. 
That's my girl! I'm feeling better already. I just 
b'lieve the matter with me is, I'm starved." 

This was a delicious hour, one long to be remem- 
bered. They were like lovers again. But their ten- 
derness, like that of a typical American family, found 
utterance in tones, rather than in words. He was 
praising her when praising her biscuit, and she knew 
it. They grew soberer when he showed where he had 
been struck, one ball burning the back of his hand, one 
cutting away a lock of hair from his temple, and one 
passing through the calf of his leg. The wife shud- 
dered to think how near she had come to being a sol- 
dier's widow. Her waiting no longer seemed hard. 
This sweet, glorious hour effaced it all. 

Then they rose, and all went out into the garden 
and down to the barn. He stood beside her while she 
milked old Spot. They began to plan fields and crops 
for next year. 

His farm was weedy and encumbered, a rascally 
renter had run away with his machinery (departing be- 
tween two days), his children needed clothing, the 
years were coming upon him, he was sick and emaci- 
ated, but his heroic soul did not quail. With the same 
courage with which he had faced his southern march 
he entered upon a still more hazardous future. 

Oh, that mystic hour ! The pale man with big eyes 
standing there by the well, with his young wife by his 
side. The vast moon swinging above the eastern 



40 HAMLIN GARLAND 

peaks, the cattle winding down the pasture slopes with 
jangling bells, the crickets singing, the stars blooming 
out sweet and far and serene ; the katydids rhythmi- 
cally calling, the little turkeys crying querulously, as 
they settled to roost in the poplar tree near the open 
gate. The voices at the well drop lower, the little ones 
nestle in their father's arms at last, and Teddy falls 
asleep there. 

The common soldier of the American volunteer 
army had returned. His war with the South was over, 
and his fight, his daily running fight with nature and 
against the injustice of his fellow-men, was begun 
again. 



Hamlin Garland 

Hamlin Garland was born at West Salem, Wis- 
consin, in i860. The hard and happy life of a boy 
on a farm in the Middle West he has vigorously pic- 
tured in that autobiographical volume Boy Life on the 
Prairie. The country schools of Wisconsin and Iowa 
gave him his early education; for some time, too, he 
studied at the Cedar Valley Seminary, in Iowa. Most 
of his time until his young manhood was spent in 
working on his father's farm. In 1883 he joined the 
landseekers who were rushing to Dakota. He did not 
stay long on the plains, but soon went to Boston, where 
he taught English literature in public and private 
schools. He interested himself in schemes for social 
reform, and in the researches of the Psychical So- 
cieties. In 1885 he began to write verse and fiction. 



THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 41 

His first book, Main Travelled Roads, published in 
1890, contained some of the best work that Mr. Gar- 
land has ever done. "Robust and terribly serious," 
Mr. Howells calls it, and his adjectives are excellently 
chosen. The book is grim with that bare and sordid 
veracity that reminds one of the unshrinking Russian 
realists who have depicted the misery of the serfs. It 
is full, too, of pity and passion, felt rather than ex- 
pressed, since one of the strongest qualities of the 
book is its reserve. Mr. Howells says: "The type 
caught in Mr. Garland's book is not pretty; it is ugly 
and often ridiculous; but it is heart-breaking in its 
rude despair .... He has the fine courage to 
leave a fact with the reader, ungarnished and un- 
varnished, which is almost the rarest trait in an Anglo- 
Saxon writer." 

Later books by Garland are Rose of Butcher's 
Coolly, Prairie Folks, Ulysses Grant — a biography — 
Other Main Travelled Roads, Hesper, The Long 
Trail, Money Magic, The Spoil of Office, The Trail 
of the Gold-seeker, The Shadow World, and The Tyr- 
anny of the Dark. Although his first successes were 
won in writing of the Middle West, Mr. Garland has 
not confined his literary interests to that district. He 
has had much to say of the far West, and the North- 
west regions; and of late he has ventured somewhat 
into the more distant realms of the supernatural. 

The Return of a Private shows Mr. Garland at his 
best, in the simple, rugged story of the common man. 



42 HAMLIN GARLAND 

bibliography 
Hamlin Garland: 

Howells, W. D. : Introduction to Main Travelled 

Roads. 
Howells, W. D. : North American Review, 196:523. 
Harkins, E. F. : Famous Authors (Men). 
Arena, 34: 112. 
Bookman, 23 : 395 (Portrait). 
Independent, 65: 1185 (Portrait). 
Review of Reviews, 25:701 (Portrait). 
Sunset, 30: 765. 
Lamp, 2y : 350. 

Stories by Garland: 
Up the Coolly. 
Among the Corn Rows. 
A Branch Road. 
The Creamery Man. 
A Day's Pleasure. 
Mrs. Ripley's Trip. 
Elder Pill, Preacher. 
A Stop-over at Tyre. 
William Bacon's Man. 
A Preacher's Love Story. 
An Alien in the Pines. 



MATEO FALCONE* 

By Prosper Merimee 

Just outside of Porto- Vecchio, as one turns north- 
west toward the center of the island, the ground rises 
very rapidly, and, after three hours' walk by tortuous 
paths, blocked by large boulders of rocks, and some- 
times cut by ravines, the traveler finds himself on the 
edge of a very broad maquis, or open plateau. These 
plateaus are the home of the Corsican shepherds, and 
the resort of those who have come in conflict with the 
law. The Corsican peasant sets fire to a certain stretch 
of forest to spare himself the trouble of manuring his 
lands : so much the worse if the flames spread further 
than is needed. Whatever happens, he is sure to have 
a good harvest by sowing upon this ground, fertilized 
by the ashes of the trees which grew on it. When the 
corn is gathered, the straw is left because it is too 
much trouble to gather. The roots, which remain in 
the earth without being consumed, sprout, in the fol- 
lowing spring, into very thick shoots, which, in a few 
years, reach to a height of seven or eight feet. It is 
this kind of underwood which is called maquis. It is 
composed of different kinds of trees and shrubs mixed 
up and entangled as in a wild state of nature. Only 

♦Copyright, 1905, by Frank S. Holby. All rights reserved, 

43 



44 PROSPER MERIMEE 

with hatchet in hand can a man open a way through 
it, and there are mdquis so dense and so thick that not 
even the wild sheep can penetrate them. 

If you have killed a man, go into the mdquis of 
Porto- Vecchio with a good gun and powder and shot, 
and you will live there in safety. Do not forget to 
take a brown cloak, furnished with a hood, which will 
serve as a coverlet and mattress. The shepherds will 
give you milk, cheese, chestnuts, and you will have 
nothing to fear from the hand of the law, nor from 
the relatives of the dead, except when you go down 
into town to renew your stock of ammunition. 

When I was in Corsica in 18 — , the house of Mateo 
Falcone was half a league from this mdquis. He was a 
comparatively rich man for that country, living hand- 
somely, that is to say, without doing anything, from 
the produce of his herds, which the shepherds, a sort 
of nomadic people, led to pasture here and there over 
the mountains. When I saw him, two years after the 
event that I am about to tell, he seemed about fifty 
years of age at the most. Imagine a small but robust 
man, with jet-black, curly hair, an aquiline nose, thin 
lips, large piercing eyes, and a deeply tanned com- 
plexion. His skill in shooting passed for extraordi- 
nary, even in his country, where there are so many 
crack shots. For example, Mateo would never fire on a 
sheep with swanshot, but, at one hundred and twenty 
paces, he would strike it with a bullet in its head or 
shoulders, as he chose. He could use his gun at night 
as easily as by day, and I was told the following ex- 
amples of his adroitness, which will seem almost in- 



MATEO FALCONE 45 

credible to those who have not traveled in Corsica: 
A lighted candle was placed behind a transparent piece 
of paper, as large as a plate, at eighty paces off. He 
put himself into position, then the candle was extin- 
guished, and in a minute's time, in complete darkness, 
he shot and pierced the paper three times out of four. 

With this conspicuous talent Mateo Falcone had 
earned a great reputation. He was said to be a loyal 
friend, but a dangerous enemy; in other respects he 
was obliging and gave alms, and he lived at peace with 
everybody in the district of Porto- Vecchio. But it is 
told of him that when at Corte, where he had found 
his wife, he had very quickly freed himself of a rival 
reputed to be as formidable in love as in war ; at any 
rate, people attributed to Mateo a certain gunshot 
which surprised his rival while in the act of shaving 
before a small mirror hung in his window. After the 
affair had been hushed up, Mateo married. His wife 
Giuseppa at first presented him with three daughters, 
which enraged him, but finally a son came whom he 
named Fortunato ; he was the hope of the family, the 
inheritor of its name. The girls were well married; 
their father could reckon in case of need upon the 
poniards and rifles of his sons-in-law. The son was 
only ten years old, but he had already shown signs of 
a promising disposition. 

One autumn day Mateo and his wife set out early to 
visit one of their flocks in a clearing of the maquis. 
Little Fortunato wanted to go with them, but the clear- 
ing was too far off ; besides, it was necessary that some 
one should stay and mind the house; so his father 



46 PROSPER MERIMEE 

refused. We shall soon see that he had occasion to 
repent his decision. 

He had been gone several hours, and little For- 
tunato was quietly lying out in the sunshine, looking at 
the blue mountains, and thinking that on the follow- 
ing Sunday he would be going to town to have dinner 
with his uncle, the corporal,* when his meditations 
were suddenly interrupted by the firing of a gun. He 
got up and turned toward that side of the plain from 
which the sound had proceeded. Other shots followed, 
fired at irregular intervals, and each time they came 
nearer and nearer until he saw a man on the path 
which led from the plain to Mateo's house. He wore a 
pointed cap like a mountaineer, he was bearded, and 
clothed in rags, and he dragged himself along with 
difficulty, leaning on his gun. He had just received 
a gunshot in the thigh. 

This man was a bandit (Corsican for one who is 
proscribed) who, having set out at night to get some 
powder from the town, had fallen on the way into an 
ambush of Corsican soldiers.f After a vigorous de- 

* Corporals were formerly the chief officers of the Corsican 
communes after they had rebelled against the feudal lords. 
To-day the name is still given sometimes to a man who, by his 
property, his connections, and his clients, exercises influence, and 
a kind of effective magistracy over a pieve, or canton. By an 
ancient custom Corsicans divide themselves into five castes : 
gentlemen (of whom some are of higher, magniiiques, some of 
lower, signori, estate), corporals, citizens, plebeians, and 
foreigners. 

f Voltigeurs: a. body raised of late years by the Government, 
which acts in conjunction with the gendarmes in the maintenance 
of order. The uniform of the voltigeurs was brown, with a 
yellow collar. 



MATEO FALCONE 47 

fense he had succeeded in escaping, but they gave 
chase hotly, firing at him from rock to rock. He was 
only a little in advance of the soldiers, and his wound 
made it out of the question to reach the mdquis before 
being overtaken. 

He came up to Fortunato and said : 

"Are you the son of Mateo Falcone?" 

"Yes." 

"I am Gianetto Sanpiero. I am pursued by the 
yellow-collars. Hide me, for I cannot go any fur- 
ther." 

"But what will my father say if I hide you without 
his permission?" 

"He will say that you did right." 

"How do you know ?" 

"Hide me quickly ; they are coming." 

"Wait till my father returns." 

"Good Lord! how can I wait? They will be here 
in five minutes. Come, hide me, or I will kill you." 

Fortunato answered with the utmost coolness : 

"Your gun is unloaded, and there are no more car- 
tridges in your carchera."* 

"I have my stiletto." 

"But could you run as fast as I can?" 

With a bound he put himself out of reach. 

"You are no son of Mateo Falcone! Will you let 
me be taken in front of his house?" 

The child seemed moved. 

* A leather belt which served the joint purposes of a cartridge 
box and pocket for dispatches and orders. 



48 PROSPER MERIMEE 

"What will you give me if I hide you?" he said, 
drawing nearer. 

The bandit felt in the leather pocket that hung from 
his side and took out a five-franc piece, which he had 
put aside, no doubt, for powder. Fortunato smiled at 
the sight of the piece of silver, and, seizing hold of it, 
he said to Gianetto : 

"Don't be afraid." 

He quickly made a large hole in a haystack which 
stood close by the house ; Gianetto crouched down in it, 
and the child covered him up so as to leave a little 
breathing space, and yet in such a way as to make it 
impossible for anyone to suspect that the hay con- 
cealed a man. He acted, further, with the ingenious 
cunning of the savage. He fetched a cat and her kit- 
tens and put them on top of the haystack to make be- 
lieve that it had not been touched for a long time. 
Then he carefully covered over with dust the blood 
stains which he had noticed on the path near the 
house, and, this done, he lay down again in the sun 
with the utmost sang-froid. 

Some minutes later six men in brown uniforms with 
yellow collars, commanded by an adjutant, stood be- 
fore Mateo's door. This adjutant was a distant rela- 
tive of the Falcones. (It is said that further degrees 
of relationship are recognized in Corsica than any- 
where else.) His name was Tidora Gamba; he was 
an energetic man, greatly feared by the banditti, and 
had already hunted out many of them. 

"Good day, youngster," he said, coming up to For- 



MATEO FALCONE 49 

tunato. "How you have grown ! Did you see a man 
pass just now?" 

"Oh, I am not yet so tall as you, cousin," the child 
replied, with a foolish look. 

"You soon will be. But tell me, have you not seen 
a man pass by?" 

"Have I seen a man pass by?" 

"Yes, a man with a pointed black velvet cap and a 
waistcoat embroidered in red and yellow." 

"A man with a pointed cap and a waistcoat embroi- 
dered in scarlet and yellow?" 

"Yes; answer sharply, and don't repeat my ques- 
tions." 

"The priest passed our door this morning on his 
horse Piero. He asked me how papa was, and I 
replied " 

"You are making game of me, you rascal. Tell me, 
at once, which way Gianetto went, for it is he we are 
after; I am certain he took this path." 

"How do you know that?" 

"How do I know that? I know you have seen 
him." 

"How can one see passers-by when one is asleep?" 

"You were not asleep, you little demon; the gun- 
shots would wake you." 

"You think, then, cousin, that your guns make noise 
enough? My father's rifle makes much more noise." 

"May the devil take you, you young scamp. I am 
absolutely certain you have seen Gianetto. Perhaps 
you have hidden him. Here, you fellows, go into the 
house, and see if our man is not there. He could only 



SO PROSPER MERIMEE 

walk on one foot, and he has too much common sense, 
the villain, to have tried to reach the mdquis limping. 
Besides, the traces of blood stop here." 

"Whatever will papa say?" Fortunato asked, with 
a chuckle. "What will he say when he finds out that 
his house has been searched during his absence?" 

"Do you know that I can make you change your 
tune, you scamp?" cried the adjutant Gamba, seizing 
him by the ear. "Perhaps you will speak when you 
have had a thrashing with the flat of a sword." 

Fortunato kept on laughing derisively. 

"My father is Mateo Falcone," he said significantly. 

"Do you know, you young scamp, that I can take 
you away to Corte or to Bastia ? I shall put you in a 
dungeon, on a bed of straw, with your feet in irons, 
and I shall guillotine you if you do not tell me where 
Gianetto Sanpier is." 

The child burst out laughing at this ridiculous 
menace. 

"My father is Mateo Falcone," he repeated. 

"Adjutant, do not let us embroil ourselves with 
Mateo," one of the soldiers whispered. 

Gamba was evidently embarrassed. He talked in a 
low voice with his soldiers, who had already been all 
over the house. The process was not very long, for a 
Corsican hut consists only of a single square room. 
The furniture comprises a table, benches, boxes, uten- 
sils for cooking and hunting. All this time little For- 
tunato caressed his cat, and seemed, maliciously, to 
enjoy the confusion of his cousin and the soldiers. 

One soldier came up to the haycock. He looked at 



MATEO FALCONE Si 

the cat and carelessly stirred the hay with his bayonet, 
shrugging his shoulders as though he thought the pre- 
caution ridiculous. Nothing moved, and the face of 
the child did not betray the least agitation. 

The adjutant and his band were in despair; they 
looked solemnly out over the plain, half inclined to 
turn the way they had come ; but their chief, convinced 
that threats would produce no effect upon the son of 
Falcone, thought he would make one last effort by try- 
ing the effect of favors and presents. 

"My boy," he said, "you are a wide-awake young 
dog, I can see. You will get on. But you play a dan- 
gerous game with me; and, if I did not want to give 
pain to my cousin Mateo, devil take it ! I would carry 
you off with me." 

"Bah!" 

"But when my cousin returns I shall tell him all 
about it, and he will give you the whip till he draws 
blood for having told me lies." 

"How do you know that?" 

"You will see. But, look here, be a good lad, and I 
will give you something." 

"You had better go and look for Gianetto in the 
maquis, cousin, for if you stay any longer it will take 
a cleverer fellow than you to catch him." 

The adjutant drew a watch out of his pocket, a sil- 
ver watch worth quite ten crowns. He watched how 
little Fortunato's eyes sparkled as he looked at it, and 
he held out the watch at the end of its steel chain. 

"You rogue," he said, "you would like to have such 
a watch as this hung round your neck, and to go and 



52 PROSPER MERIMEE 

walk up and down the streets of Porto- Vecchio as 
proud as a peacock ; people would ask you the time, and 
you would reply, 'Look at my watch !' " 

"When I am grown up, my uncle the corporal will 
give me a watch." 

"Yes; but your uncle's son has one already — not 
such a fine one as this, however — for he is younger 
than you." 

The boy sighed. 

"Well, would you like this watch, kiddy?" 

Fortunato ogled the watch out of the corner of his 
eyes, as a cat does when a whole chicken is given to 
it. It dares not pounce upon the prey, because it is 
afraid a joke is being played on it, but it turns its eyes 
away now and then, to avoid succumbing to the tempta- 
tion, licking its lips all the time as though to say to 
its master, "What a cruel joke you are playing on me !" 

The adjutant Gamba, however, seemed really will- 
ing to give the watch. Fortunato did not hold out his 
hand ; but he said to him with a bitter smile : 

"Why do you make fun of me?" 

"I swear I am not joking. Only tell me where 
Gianetto is, and this watch is yours." 

Fortunato smiled incredulously, and fixed his black 
eyes on those of the adjutant. He tried to find in 
them the faith he would fain have in his words. 

"May I lose my epaulets," cried the adjutant, "if 
I do not give you the watch upon that condition! I 
call my men to witness, and then I cannot retract." 

As he spoke, he held the watch nearer and nearer 
until it almost touched the child's pale cheeks. His 



MATEO FALCONE S3 

face plainly expressed the conflict going on in his mind 
between covetousness and the claims of hospitality. 
His bare breast heaved violently, almost to suffocation. 
All the time the watch dangled and twisted and even 
hit the tip of his nose. By degrees he raised his right 
hand toward the watch, his finger ends touched it ; and 
its whole weight rested on his palm, although the ad- 
jutant still held the end of the chain loosely. . . . The 
watch face was blue. ... The case was newly pol- 
ished. ... It seemed blazing in the sun like fire. . . . 
The temptation was too strong. 

Fortunato raised his left hand at the same time, and 
pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the hay- 
cock against which he was leaning. The adjutant un- 
derstood him immediately, and let go the end of the 
chain. Fortunato felt himself sole possessor of the 
watch. He jumped up with the agility of a deer, and 
stood ten paces distant from the haycock, which the 
soldiers at once began to upset. 

It was not long before they saw the hay move, and 
a bleeding man came out, poniard in hand ; when, how- 
ever, he tried to rise to his feet, his stiffening wound 
prevented him from standing. He fell down. The 
adjutant threw himself upon him and snatched away 
his dagger. He was speedily and strongly bound, in 
spite of his resistance. 

Gianetto was bound and laid on the ground like a 
bundle of fagots. He turned his head toward For- 
tunato, who had come up to him. 

"Son of ," he said to him, more in contempt 

than in anger. 



54 PROSPER MERIMEE 

The boy threw to him the silver piece that he had 
received from him, feeling conscious that he no longer 
deserved it ; but the outlaw took no notice of the action. 
He merely said in a low voice to the adjutant : 

"My dear Gamba, I cannot walk ; you will be obliged 
to carry me to the town." 

"You could run as fast as a kid just now," his captor 
retorted brutally. "But don't be anxious; I am glad 
enough to have caught you; I would carry you for a 
league on my own back and not feel tired. All the 
same, my friend, we will make a litter for you out of 
the branches and your cloak. The farm at Crespoli 
will provide us with horses." 

"All right," said the prisoner; "I hope you will put 
a little straw on your litter to make it easier for me." 

While the soldiers were busy, some making a rough 
stretcher out of chestnut boughs, and others dressing 
Gianetto's wound, Mateo Falcone and his wife sud- 
denly appeared in a turning of the path from the 
maquis. The wife came in, bending laboriously under 
the weight of a huge stack of chestnuts; while her 
husband jaunted up, carrying his gun in one hand, and 
a second gun slung in his shoulder belt. It is con- 
sidered undignified for a man to carry any other bur- 
den than his weapons. 

When he saw the soldiers, Mateo's first thought was 
that they had come to arrest him. But he had no 
ground for this fear ; he had never quarreled with the 
law. On the contrary, he bore a good reputation. He 
was, as the saying is, particularly well thought of. But 
he was a Corsican, and mountain bred, and there are 



MATEO FALCONE 55 

but few Corsican mountaineers who, if they search 
their memories sufficiently, cannot recall some little 
peccadillo, some gunshot, or dagger thrust, or such- 
like bagatelle. Mateo's conscience was clearer than 
most, for it was fully ten years since he had pointed 
his gun at any man ; yet at the same time he was cau- 
tious, and he prepared to make a brave defense if 
need be. 

"Wife, put down your sack/' he said, "and keep 
yourself in readiness." 

She obeyed immediately. He gave her the gun 
which was slung over his shoulder, since it was likely 
to be the one that would inconvenience him the most. 
He held the other gun in readiness and proceeded 
leisurely toward the house by the side of the trees 
which bordered the path, ready to throw himself be- 
hind the largest trunk for cover, and to fire at the least 
sign of hostility. His wife walked close behind him, 
holding her reloaded gun and her cartridges. It was 
the duty of a good housewife, in case of a conflict, 
to reload her husband's arms. 

On his side, the adjutant was very uneasy at the 
sight of Mateo advancing thus upon them with meas- 
ured steps, his gun pointed and finger on trigger. 

"If it happens that Gianetto is related to Mateo," 
thought he, "or he is his friend, and he means to pro- 
tect him, two of his bullets will be put into two of 
us as sure as a letter goes to the post, and he will aim 
at me in spite of our kinship ! . . ." 

In this perplexity, he put on a bold face and went 
forward alone toward Mateo to tell him what had 



56 PROSPER MERIMEE 

happened, greeting him like an old acquaintance. But 
the brief interval which separated him from Mateo 
seemed to him of terribly long duration. 

"Hullo! Ah! my old comrade," he called out. 
"How are you, old fellow? I am your cousin Gamba." 

Mateo did not say a word, but stood still ; and while 
the other was speaking, he softly raised the muzzle of 
his rifle in such a manner that by the time the adjutant 
came up to him it was pointing skyward. 

"Good day, brother,"* said the adjutant, holding out 
his hand. "It is a very long time since I saw you." 

"Good day, brother." 

"I just called in when passing, to say 'good day' to 
you and cousin Pepa. We have done a long tramp to- 
day; but we must not complain of fatigue, for we have 
taken a fine catch. We have got hold of Gianetto 
Sanpiero." 

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Giuseppa. "He stole 
one of our milch goats last week." 

Gamba rejoiced at these words. 

"Poor devil !" said Mateo, "he was hungry." 

"The fellow fought like a lion," continued the ad- 
jutant, slightly nettled. "He killed one of the. men, 
and, not content to stop there, he broke Corporal Char- 
don's arm; but this is not of much consequence, for 
Chardon is only a Frenchman. . . . Then he hid him- 
self so cleverly that the devil could not have found him. 
If it had not been for my little cousin Fortunato, I 
should never have discovered him." 

"Fortunato?" cried Mateo. 
* The ordinary greeting of Corsicans. 



MATEO FALCONE 57 

"Fortunate* ?" repeated Giuseppa. 

"Yes; Gianetto was concealed in your haycock 
there, but my little cousin showed me his trick. I will 
speak of him to his uncle the corporal, who will send 
him a nice present as a reward. And both his name 
and yours will be in the report which I shall send to the 
superintendent." 

"Curse you !" cried Mateo under his breath. 

By this time they had rejoined the company. Gian- 
etto was already laid on his litter, and they were ready 
to set out. When he saw Mateo in Gamba's company 
he smiled a strange smile; then, turning toward the 
door of the house, he spat on the threshold. 

"It is the house of a traitor !" he exclaimed. 

No man but one willing to die would have dared to 
utter the word "traitor" in connection with Falcone. A 
quick stroke from a dagger, without need for a second, 
would have immediately wiped out the insult. But 
Mateo made no other movement beyond putting his 
hand to his head like a dazed man. 

Fortunato went into the house when he saw his 
father come up. He reappeared shortly, carrying a jug 
of milk, which he offered with downcast eyes to 
Gianetto. 

"Keep off me !" roared the outlaw. 

Then, turning to one of the soldiers, he said : 

"Comrade, give me a drink of water." 

The soldier placed the flask in his hands, and the 
bandit drank the water given him by a man with whom 
he had but now exchanged gunshots. He then asked 



58 PROSPER MERIMEE 

that his hands might be tied crossed over his breast in- 
stead of behind his back. 

"I prefer," he said, "to lie down comfortably. ,, 

They granted him his request. Then, at a sign from 
the adjutant, they set out, first bidding adieu to Mateo, 
who answered never a word, and descended at a quick 
pace toward the plain. 

Well-nigh ten minutes elapsed before Mateo opened 
his mouth. The child looked uneasily first at his 
mother, then at his father, who leant on his gun, look- 
ing at him with an expression of concentrated anger. 

"Well, you have made a pretty beginning," said 
Mateo at last in a voice, calm, but terrifying to those 
who knew the man. 

"Father," the boy cried out, with tears in his eyes — 
ready to fall at his knees. 

"Out of my sight!" shouted Mateo. 

The child stopped motionless a few steps off from 
his father and began to sob. 

Giuseppa came near him. She had just seen the 
end of the watch chain hanging from out his shirt. 

"Who gave you that watch?" she asked severely. 

"My cousin the adjutant." 

Falcone seized the watch and threw it against a 
stone with such force that it broke into a thousand 
pieces. 

"Woman," he said, "is this my child?" 

Giuseppa's brown cheeks flamed brick-red. 

"What are you saying, Mateo? Do you know to 
whom you are speaking?" 



MATEO FALCONE 59 

"Yes, very well. This child is the first traitor of his 



race." 



Fortunato's sobs and hiccoughs redoubled, and Fal- 
cone kept his lynx eyes steadily fixed on him. At 
length he struck the ground with the butt end of his 
gun; then he flung it across his shoulder, retook the 
way to the maquis, and ordered Fortunato to follow 
him. The child obeyed. 

Giuseppa ran after Mateo, and seized him by the 
arm. 

"He is your son," she said in a trembling voice, fix- 
ing her black eyes on those of her husband, as though 
to read all that was passing in his mind. 

"Let go," replied Mateo; "I am his father." 

Giuseppa kissed her son, and went back crying into 
the hut. She threw herself on her knees before an 
image of the Virgin, and prayed fervently. When Fal- 
cone had walked about two hundred yards along the 
path, he stopped at a little ravine and went down into 
it. He sounded the ground with the butt end of his 
gun, and found it soft and easy to dig. The spot 
seemed suitable to his purpose. 

"Fortunato, go near to that large rock." 

The boy did as he was told, then knelt down. 

"Father, father, do not kill me!" 

"Say your prayers!" repeated Mateo in a terrible 
voice. 

The child repeated the Lord's Prayer and the Creed, 
stammering and sobbing. The father said "Amen!" 
in a firm voice at the close of each prayer. 

"Are those all the prayers you know?" 



60 PROSPER MERIMEE 

"I know also the Ave Maria and Litany, that my 
aunt taught me, father." 

"It is long, but never mind." 

The child finished the Litany in a faint voice. 

"Have you finished?" 

"Oh, father, father, forgive me ! forgive me ! I will 
never do it again. I will beg my cousin the corporal 
with all my might to pardon Gianetto !" 

He went on imploring. Mateo loaded his rifle and 
took aim. 

"May God forgive you !" he said. 

The boy made a frantic effort to get up and clasp his 
father's knees, but he had no time. Mateo fired, and 
Fortunato fell stone dead. 

Without throwing a single glance at the body, Mateo 
went back to his house to fetch a spade with which to 
bury his son. He had only returned a little way along 
the path when he met Giuseppa, who had run out, 
alarmed by the sound of the firing. 

"What have you done?" she cried. 

"Justice!" 

"Where is he?" 

"In the ravine ; I am going to bury him. He died a 
Christian. I shall have a mass sung for him. Let 
some one tell my son-in-law Tiodoro Bianchi to come 
and live with us." 



Prosper Merimee 



Prosper Merimee, the distinguished French novelist, 
historian, dramatist, and critic, was born in 1803. 



MATEO FALCONE 61 

Through some fault in his training, he was led, very- 
early in life, to assume an indifference and cynicism 
which made him a rather difficult person in social re- 
lations and a writer of hard and bitter fiction. Never- 
theless, he was really a man of sensitive feeling and a 
devoted friend. Merimee studied law, but never prac- 
ticed it; he held various public positions, and his re- 
ports of his civil and professional researches were read 
widely and much admired. He wrote a number of ex- 
cellent historical works, and essays of an historical or 
critical nature. His translations of the works of 
Poushkin, the Russian story- writer, were so spirited 
that they seemed almost like the translator's own pro- 
ductions. Certain of Merimee's plays have held con- 
tinued favor, and his Lettres a une inconnue are popu- 
lar in England and America as well as in France. It 
is small wonder that so distinguished a man should 
find acceptance at the court of Napoleon III, or that 
the influence of the Empress Eugenie should have 
been exercised to make him a Senator. In 1844 he 
was elected a member of the Academy. Columba, 
Merimee's most successful novel (1840), is a story of 
Corsica. Carmen (1847) was use d as the basis of 
Bizet's opera of that name. Though Merimee chose 
foreign scenes for his fiction, he knew how to give 
them an air of vigorous reality and was fond of pro- 
ducing striking effects with local and historical color. 
His tragic and terrible subjects he handled with notable 
reserve. Most of his short-stories have become classics, 
and justly, for they are written with wonderful con- 
ciseness and polish. Nevertheless, they are hard, iron- 



62 PROSPER MERIMEE 

ical, and cynical. Mateo Falcone shows Merimee's 
delight in a foreign setting, and his skill in producing 
vivid effects. The relentless progress of the story, and 
the impersonal coolness in the transcription of the 
tragedy, are both strongly characteristic of the author. 

bibliography 
Prosper Merimee: 

Pater, W. H. : Studies in European Literature, pp. 

3I-53- 

Brandes, Georg: Main Currents, pp. 239-286. 

Taine, H. A. : Introduction to Lettres a une inconnue. 

King, Grace: Introduction to Little French Master- 
pieces (Merimee). 

Current Literature, 47 : 160. 

Bookman, 19:455 (Portrait). 

Nation, 76 : 149. 

Lippincott's, 88:731. 

Stories by Merimee : 

The Taking of the Redoubt. 

The Venus of Me. 

Carmen. 

Arsene Guillot. 

Tamango. 

The Blue Room. 

The Etruscan Vase. 

Representative Stories by French Authors: 

La Grande Breteche Honore de Balzac. 

A Passion in the Desert Honore de Balzac. 

An Episode under the Terror Honore de Balzac. 

The Attack on the Mill fimile Zola. 

The Mummy's Foot Theophile Gautier. 



MATEO FALCONE 63 

The Dead Leman Theophile Gautier. 

Bourn Bourn Jules Claretie. 

The Substitute Frangois Coppee. 

The Necklace Guy de Maupassant. 

The Piece of String Guy de Maupassant. 

The Last Class Alphonse Daudet. 

The Little Pies Alphonse Daudet. 

The Beauty Spot Alfred de Musset. 

On the Express Ludovic Halevy. 

The Insurgent Ludovic Halevy. 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL* 
By O. Henry 

A lank, strong, red-faced man with a Wellington 
beak and small, fiery eyes tempered by flaxen lashes, 
sat on the station platform at Los Pinos swinging his 
legs to and fro. At his side sat another man, fat, 
melancholy, and seedy, who seemed to be his friend. 
They had the appearance of men to whom life had ap- 
peared as a reversible coat — seamy on both sides. 

" Ain't seen you in about four year, Ham/' said the 
seedy man. "Which way you been traveling?" 

"Texas," said the red-faced man. "It was too cold 
in Alaska for me. And I found it warm in Texas. 
I'll tell you about one hot spell I went through there. 

"One morning I steps off the International at a 
water-tank and lets it go on without me. 'Twas a 
ranch country, and fuller of spite-houses than New 
York City. Only out there they build 'em twenty miles 
away so you can't smell what they've got for dinner, 
instead of running 'em up two inches from their neigh- 
bors' windows. 

"There wasn't any roads in sight, so I footed it 
'cross country. The grass was shoe-top deep, and the 

*From Options, by permission of the publishers, Doubleday, 
Page and Company. 

64 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL ( 65 

mesquite timber looked just like a peach orchard. It 
was so much like a gentleman's private estate that 
every minute you expected a kennel ful of bulldogs to 
run out and bite you. But I must have walked twenty 
miles before I came in sight of a ranch-house. It was 
a little one, about as big as an elevated railroad station. 

"There was a little man in a white shirt and brown 
overalls and a pink handkerchief around his neck roll- 
ing cigarettes under a tree in front of the door. 

" 'Greetings,' says I. 'Any refreshment, welcome, 
emoluments, or even work for a comparative 
stranger ?' 

" 'Oh, come in,' says he, in a refined tone. 'Sit 
down on that stool, please. I didn't hear your horse 
coming.' 

" 'He isn't near enough yet,' says I. 'I walked. I 
don't want to be a burden, but I wonder if you have 
three or four gallons of water handy.' 

" 'You do look pretty dusty,' says he ; 'but our bath- 
ing arrangements ' 

" 'It's a drink I want,' says I. 'Never mind the 
dust that's on the outside/ 

"He gets me a dipper of water out of a red jar hang- 
ing up, and then goes on : 

" 'Do you want work ?' 

" 'For a time,' says I. 'This is a rather quiet section 
of the country, isn't it ?' 

" 'It is,' says he. 'Sometimes — so I have been told 
— one sees no human being pass for weeks at a time. 
I've been here only a month. I bought the ranch 
from an old settler who wanted to move farther west.' 



66 O. HENRY 

" 'It suits me,' says I. 'Quiet and retirement are 
good for a man sometimes. And I need a job. I can 
tend bar, salt mines, lecture, float stock, do a little 
middleweight slugging, and play the piano.' 

" 'Can you herd sheep ?' asks the little ranchman. 

" 'Do you mean have I heard sheep ?' says I. 

" 'Can you herd 'em — take charge of a flock of 'em?' 
says he. 

' 'Oh,' says I, 'now I understand. You mean chase 
'em around and bark at 'em like collie dogs. Well, I 
might,' says I. 'I've never exactly done any sheep- 
herding, but I've often seen 'em from car windows 
masticating daisies, and they don't look dangerous.' 

" 'I'm short a herder,' says the ranchman. 'You 
never can depend on Mexicans. I've only got two 
flocks. You may take out my bunch of muttons — 
there are only eight hundred of 'em — in the morning, 
if you like. The pay is twelve dollars a month and 
your rations furnished. You camp in a tent on the 
prairie with your sheep. You do your own cooking, 
but wood and water are brought to your camp. It's an 
easy job.' 

" 'I'm on,' says I. 'I'll take the job even if I have 
to garland my brow and hold on to a crook and wear 
a loose-effect and play on a pipe like the shepherds do 
in pictures.' 

"So the next morning the little ranchman helps me 
drive the flock of muttons from the corral to about 
two miles out and let 'em graze on a little hillside on 
the prairie. He gives me a lot of instructions about 
not letting bunches of them stray off from the herd, 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 67 

and driving 'em down to a water-hole to drink at noon. 

" 'I'll bring out your tent and camping outfit and 
rations in the buckboard before night/ says he. 

" Tine/ says I. 'And don't forget the rations. Nor 
the camping outfit. And be sure to bring the tent. 
Your name's Zollicoffer, ain't it?" 

" 'My name,' says he, 'is Henry Ogden.' 

" 'All right, Mr. Ogden/ says I. 'Mine is Mr. Per- 
cival Saint Clair.' 

"I herded sheep for five days on the Rancho Chi- 
quito ; and then the wool entered my soul. That get- 
ting next to Nature certainly got next to me. I was 
lonesomer than Crusoe's goat. I've seen a lot of per- 
sons more entertaining as companions than those sheep 
were. I'd drive 'em to the corral and pen 'em every 
evening, and then cook my corn-bread and mutton 
and coffee, and lie down in a tent the size of a table- 
cloth, and listen to the coyotes and whippoorwills 
singing around the camp. 

"The fifth evening, after I had corralled my costly 
but uncongenial muttons, I walked over to the ranch- 
house and stepped in the door. 

" 'Mr. Ogden,' says I, 'you and me have got to get 
sociable. Sheep are all very well to dot the landscape 
and furnish eight-dollar cotton suitings for men, but 
for table-talk and fireside companions they rank along 
with five-o'clock teazers. If you've got a deck of 
cards, or a parcheesi outfit, or a game of authors, get 
'em out, and let's get on a mental basis. I've got to 
do something in an intellectual line, if it's only to 
knock somebody's brains out.' 



.68 O. HENRY 

"This Henry Ogden was a peculiar kind of ranch- 
man. He wore finger-rings and a big gold watch and 
careful neckties. And his face was calm, and his 
nose-spectacles was kept very shiny. I saw once, in 
Muscogee, an outlaw hung for murdering six men, 
who was a dead ringer for him. But I knew a 
preacher in Arkansas that you would have taken to 
be his brother. I didn't care much for him either way ; 
what I wanted was some fellowship and communion 
with holy saints or lost sinners — anything sheepless 
would do. 

" 'Well, Saint Clair/ says he, laying down the book 
he was reading, 'I guess it must be pretty lonesome 
for you at first. And I don't deny that it's monotonous 
for me. Are you sure you corralled your sheep so 
they won't stray out?' 

" 'They're shut up as tight as the jury of a mil- 
lionaire murderer,' says I. 'And I'll be back with 
them long before they'll need their trained nurse.' 

"So Ogden digs up a deck of cards, and we play 
casino. After five days and nights of my sheep-camp 
it was like a toot on Broadway. When I caught big 
casino I felt as excited as if I had made a million in 
Trinity. And when H. O. loosened up a little and told 
the story about the lady in the Pullman car I laughed 
for five minutes. 

"That showed what a comparative thing life is. A 
man may see so much that he'd be bored to turn his 
head to look at a $3,000,000 fire or Joe Weber or the 
Adriatic Sea. But let him herd sheep for a spell, and 
you'll see him splitting his ribs laughing at 'Curfew 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 69 

Shall Not Ring To-night,' or really enjoying himself 
playing cards with ladies. 

"By-and-by Ogden gets out a decanter of Bourbon, 
and then there is a total eclipse of sheep. 

" 'Do you remember reading in the papers, about a 
month ago/ says he, 'about a train hold-up on the 
M. K. & T. ? The express agent was shot through the 
shoulder, and about $15,000 in currency taken. And 
it's said that only one man did the job/ 

" 'Seems to me I do,' says I. 'But such things hap- 
pen so often they don't linger long in the human Texas 
mind. Did they overtake, overhaul, seize, or lay hands 
upon the despoiler ?' 

" 'He escaped,' says Ogden. 'And I was just read- 
ing in a paper to-day that the officers have tracked him 
down into this part of the country. It seems the bills 
the robber got were all the first issue of currency to 
the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. And so 
they've followed the trail where they've been spent, 
and it leads this way.' 

"Ogden pours out some more Bourbon, and shoves 
me the bottle. 

" T imagine,' says I, after ingurgitating another 
modicum of the royal booze, 'that it wouldn't be at all 
a disingenuous idea for a train robber to run down 
into this part of the country to hide for a spell. A 
sheep-ranch, now,' says I, 'would be the finest kind of 
a place. Who'd ever expect to find such a desperate 
character among these song-birds and muttons and 
wild flowers? And, by the way,' says I, kind of look- 
ing H. Ogden over, 'was there any description men- 



70 O. HENRY 

tioned of this single-handed terror? Was his linea- 
ments or height and thickness or teeth fillings or style 
of habiliments set forth in print?' 

" 'Why, no,' says Ogden; 'they say nobody got a 
good sight of him because he wore a mask. But they 
know it was a train-robber called Black Bill, because 
he always works alone and because he dropped a hand- 
kerchief in the express-car that had his name on it.' 

" 'All right,' says I. 'I approve of Black Bill's re- 
treat to the sheep-ranges. I guess they won't find 
him.' 

" 'There's one thousand dollars reward for his cap- 
ture,' says Ogden. 

" 'I don't need that kind of money,' says I, looking 
Mr. Sheepman straight in the eye. 'The twelve dol- 
lars a month you pay me is enough. I need a rest, and 
I can save up until I get enough to pay my fare to 
Texarkana, where my widowed mother lives. If Black 
Bill,' I goes on, looking significantly at Ogden, 'was 
to have come down this way — say, a month ago — and 
bought a little sheep-ranch and ' 

" 'Stop,' says Ogden, getting out of his chair and 
looking pretty vicious. 'Do you mean to insinuate ' 

" 'Nothing,' says I ; 'no insinuations. I'm stating a 
hypodermical case. I say, if Black Bill had come down 
here and bought a sheep-ranch and hired me to Little- 
Boy-Blue 'em and treated me square and friendly, as 
you've done, he'd never have anything to fear from 
me. A man is a man, regardless of any complications 
he may have with sheep or railroad trains. Now you 
know where I stand,' 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 71 

"Ogden looks black as camp-coffee for nine seconds, 
and then he laughs, amused. 

" 'You'll do, Saint Clair,' says he. 'If I was Black 
Bill I wouldn't be afraid to trust you. Let's have a 
game or two of seven-up to-night. That is, if you 
don't mind playing with a train-robber.' 

" 'I've told you,' says I, 'my oral sentiments, and 
there's no strings to 'em.' 

"While I was shuffling after the first hand, I asks 
Ogden, as if the idea was a kind of a casualty, where 
he was from. 

" 'Oh,' says he, 'from the Mississippi Valley.' 

" 'That's a nice little place,' says I. 'I've often 
stopped over there. But didn't you find the sheets a 
little damp and the food poor? Now, I hail,' says 
I, 'from the Pacific Slope. Ever put up there?' 

" 'Too draughty,' says Ogden. 'But if you're ever 
in the Middle West just mention my name, and you'll 
get foot-warmers and dripped coffee.' 

" 'Well,' says I, T wasn't exactly fishing for your 
private telephone number and the middle name of your 
aunt that carried off the Cumberland Presbyterian 
minister. It don't matter. I just want you to know 
you are safe in the hands of your shepherd. Now, 
don't play hearts on spades, and don't get nervous/ 

" 'Still harping,' says Ogden, laughing again. 'Don't 
you suppose that if I was Black Bill and thought you 
suspected me, I'd put a Winchester bullet into you and 
stop my nervousness, if I had any?' 

' 'Not any,' says I. 'A man who's got the nerve to 
hold up a train single-handed wouldn't do a trick like 



12 O. HENRY 

that. I've knocked about enough to know that them 
are the kind of men who put a value on a friend. Not 
that I can claim being a friend of yours, Mr. Ogden,' 
says I, 'being only your sheep-herder ; but under more 
expeditious circumstances we might have been.' 

" 'Forget the sheep temporarily, I beg,' says Ogden, 
'and cut for deal.' 

"About four days afterward, while my muttons was 
nooning on the water-hole and I deep in the inter- 
stices of making a pot of coffee, up rides softly on the 
grass a mysterious person in the garb of the being he 
wished to represent. He was dressed somewhere be- 
tween a Kansas City detective, Buffalo Bill, and the 
town dog-catcher of Baton Rouge. His chin and eye 
wasn't molded on fighting lines, so I knew he was only 
a scout. 

" 'Herdin' sheep?' he asks me. 

" 'Well,' says I, 'to a man of your evident gump- 
tional endowments, I wouldn't have the nerve to state 
that I am engaged in decorating old bronzes or oiling 
bicycle sprockets.' 

" 'You don't talk or look like a sheep-herder to me,' 
says he. 

" 'But you talk like what you look like to me,' 
says I. 

"And then he asks me who I was working for, and 
I shows him Rancho Chiquito, two miles away, in the 
shadow of a low hill, and he tells me he's a deputy 
sheriff. 

" 'There's a train-robber called Black Bill supposed 
to be somewhere in these parts,' says the scout. 'He's 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 73 

been traced as far as San Antonio, and maybe farther. 
Have you seen or heard of any strangers around here 
during the past month?' 

" 'I have not/ says I, 'except a report of one over 
at the Mexican quarters of Loomis' ranch, on the 
Frio/ 

" 'What do you know about him ?' asks the deputy. 

" 'He's three days old,' says I. 

" 'What kind of a looking man is the man you work 
for ?' he asks. 'Does old George Ramey own this place 
yet? He's run sheep here for the last ten years, but 
never had no success.' 

" 'The old man has sold out and gone West/ I tells 
him. 'Another sheep-fancier bought him out about a 
month ago.' 

" 'What kind of a looking man is he ?' asks the dep- 
uty again. 

" 'Oh,' says I, 'a big, fat kind of a Dutchman with 
long whiskers and blue specs. I don't think he knows 
a sheep from a ground-squirrel. I guess old George 
soaked him pretty well on the deal,' says I. 

"After indulging himself in a lot more noncom- 
municative information and two-thirds of my dinner, 
the deputy rides away. 

"That night I mentions the matter to Ogden. 

" 'They're drawing the tendrils of the octopus 
around Black Bill,' says I. And then I told him about 
the deputy sheriff, and how I'd described him to the 
deputy, and what the deputy said about the matter. 

' 'Oh, well,' says Ogden, 'let's don't borrow any of 
Black Bill's troubles. We've a few of our own. Get 



74 O. HENRY 

the Bourbon out of the cupboard and we'll drink to 
his health — unless,' — says he, with his little cackling 
laugh, 'you're prejudiced against train-robbers.' 

" 'I'll drink,' says I, 'to any man who's a friend to 
a friend. And I believe that Black Bill,' I goes on, 
'would be that. So here's to Black Bill, and may he 
have good luck.' 

"And both of us drank. 

"About two weeks later comes shearing-time. The 
sheep had to be driven up to the ranch, and a lot of 
frowzy-headed Mexicans would snip the fur off of 
them with back-action scissors. So the afternoon be- 
fore the barbers were to come I hustled my underdone 
muttons over the hill, across the dell, down by the 
winding brook, and up to the ranch-house, where I 
penned 'em in a corral and bade 'em my nightly adieus. 

"I went from there to the ranch-house. I find H. 
Ogden, Esquire, lying asleep on his little cot bed. I 
guess he had been overcome by anti-insomnia or dis- 
wake fulness or some of the diseases peculiar to the 
sheep business. His mouth and vest were open, and 
he breathed like a second-hand bicycle pump. I looked 
at him and gave vent to just a few musings. 'Im- 
perial Caesar,' says I, 'asleep in such a way, might shut 
his mouth and keep the wind away.' 

"A man asleep is certainly a sight to make angels 
weep. What good is all his brain, muscle, backing, 
nerve, influence, and family connections ? He's at the 
mercy of his enemies, and more so of his friends. 
And he's about as beautiful as a cab-horse leaning 
against the Metropolitan Opera House at 12.30 A. M. 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 75 

dreaming of the plains of Arabia. Now, a woman 
asleep you regard as different. No matter how she 
looks, you know it's better for all hands for her to 
be that way. 

"Well, I took a drink of Bourbon and one for Og- 
den, and started in to be comfortable while he was 
taking his nap. He had some books on his table on 
indigenous subjects, such as Japan and drainage and 
physical culture — and some tobacco, which seemed 
more to the point. 

"After I'd smoked a few, and listened to the sar- 
torial breathing of H. O., I happened to look out the 
window toward the shearing-pens, where there was a 
kind of a road coming up from a kind of a road across 
a kind of a creek farther away. 

"I saw five men riding up to the house. All of 'em 
carried guns across their saddles, and among 'em was 
the deputy that had talked to me at my camp. 

"They rode up careful, in open formation, with their 
guns ready. I set apart with my eye the one I opin- 
ionated to be the boss muckraker of this law-and-order 
cavalry. 

" 'Good evening, gents,' says I. 'Won't you 'light, 
and tie your horses?' 

"The boss rides up close, and swings his gun over 
till the opening in it seems to cover my whole front 
elevation. 

' 'Don't you move your hands none,' says he, 'till 
you and me indulge in a adequate amount of neces- 
sary conversation.' 

' 'I will not,' says I. T am no deaf-mute, and there- 



76 O. HENRY 

fore will not have to disobey your injunctions in re- 
plying/ 

" 'We are on the lookout,' says he, 'for Black Bill, 
the man that held up the Katy for $15,000 in May. 
We are searching the ranches and everybody on 'em. 
What is your name, and what do you do on this 
ranch ?' 

" 'Captain,' says I, 'Percival Saint Clair is my oc- 
cupation, and my name is sheep-herder. I've got my 
flock of veals — no, muttons — penned here to-night. 
The shearers are coming to-morrow to give them a 
hair-cut — with baa-a-rum, I suppose.' 

" 'Where's the boss of this ranch?' the captain of the 
gang asks me. 

" 'Wait just a minute, cap'n,' says I. 'Wasn't there 
a kind of a reward offered for the capture of this des- 
perate character you have referred to in your 
preamble ?' 

" 'There's a thousand dollars reward offered,' says 
the captain, 'but it's for his capture and conviction. 
There don't seem to be no provision made for an in- 
former.' 

" 'It looks like it might rain in a day or so/ says I, 
in a tired way, looking up at the cerulean blue sky. 

" 'If you know anything about the locality, disposi- 
tion, or secretiveness of this here Black Bill,' says he, 
in a severe dialect, 'you are amiable to the law in not 
reporting it.' 

" T heard a fence-rider say,' says I, in a desultory 
kind of voice, 'that a Mexican told a cowboy named 
Jake over at Pidgin's store on the Nueces that he heard 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 77 

that Black Bill had been seen in Matamoras by a sheep- 
man's cousin two weeks ago.' 

" Tell you what I'll do, Tight Mouth,' says the cap- 
tain, after looking me over for bargains. 'If you put 
us on so we can scoop Black Bill, I'll pay you a hun- 
dred dollars out of my own — out of our own — pockets. 
That's liberal,' says he. 'You ain't entitled to anything. 
Now, what do you say?' 

" 'Cash down now?' I asks. 

"The captain has a sort of discussion with his help- 
mates, and they all produce the contents of their 
pockets for analysis. Out of the general results they 
figured up $102.30 in cash and $31 worth of plug 
tobacco. 

" 'Come near, capitan meeo,' says I, 'and listen.' 
He so did. 

" 'I am mighty poor and low down in the world,' 
says I. T am working for twelve dollars a month try- 
ing to keep a lot of animals together whose only 
thought seems to be to get asunder. Although,' says 
I, 'I regard myself as some better than the State of 
South Dakota, it's a come-down to a man who has 
heretofore regarded sheep only in the form of chops. 
I'm pretty far reduced in the world on account of 
foiled ambitions and rum and a kind of cocktail they 
make along the P. R. R. all the way from Scranton to 
Cincinnati — dry gin, French vermouth, one squeeze of 
a lime, and a good dash of orange bitters. If you're 
ever up that way, don't fail to let one try you. And, 
again,' says I, 'I have never yet went back on a friend. 



78 O. HENRY 

I've stayed by 'em when they had plenty, and when 
adversity's overtaken me I've never forsook 'em. 

" 'But,' I goes on, 'this is not exactly the case of a 
friend. Twelve dollars a month is only bowing-ac- 
quaintance money. And I do not consider brown beans 
and cornbread the food of friendship. I am a poor 
man/ says I, 'and I have a widowed mother in Tex- 
arkana. You will find Black Bill,' says I, 'lying asleep 
in this house on a cot in the room to your right. He's 
the man you want, as I know from his words and con- 
versation. He was in a way a friend,' I explains, 'and 
if I was the man I once was the entire product of the 
mines of Gondola would not have tempted me to be- 
tray him. But,' says I, 'every week half of the beans 
was wormy, and not nigh enough wood in camp. 

" 'Better go in careful, gentlemen,' says I. 'He 
seems impatient at times, and when you think of his 
late professional pursuits one would look for abrupt 
actions if he was come upon sudden.' 

"So the whole posse unmounts and ties their horses, 
and unlimbers their ammunition and equipments, and 
tiptoes into the house. And I follows, like Delilah 
when she set the Philip Steins on to Samson. 

"The leader of the posse shakes Ogden and wakes 
him up. And then he jumps up, and two more of the 
reward-hunters grab him. Ogden was mighty tough 
with all his slimness, and he gives 'em as neat a single- 
footed tussle against odds as I ever see. 

"'What does this mean?' he says, after they had 
him down. 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 79 

" 'You're scooped in, Mr. Black Bill/ says the cap- 
tain. That's all/ 

" 'It's an outrage/ says H. Ogden, madder yet. 

" 'It was/ says the peace-and-good-will man. 'The 
Katy wasn't bothering you, and there's a law against 
monkeying with express packages.' 

"And he sits on H. Ogden's stomach and goes 
through his pockets symptomatically and careful. 

" 'I'll make you perspire for this/ says Ogden, per- 
spiring some himself. 'I can prove who I am.' 

" 'So can 1/ says the captain, as he draws from H. 
Ogden's inside coat-pocket a handful of new bills of 
the Second National Bank of Espinosa City. 'Your 
regular engraved Tuesdays-and-Fridays visiting card 
wouldn't have a louder voice in proclaiming your in- 
demnity than this here currency. You can get up now 
and prepare to go with us and expatriate your sins.' 

"H. Ogden gets up and fixes his necktie. He says 
no more after they have taken the money off of him. 

" 'A well-greased idea,' says the sheriff captain, ad- 
miring, 'to slip off down here and buy a little sheep 
ranch where the hand of man is seldom heard. It was 
the slickest hide-out I ever see,' says the captain. 

"So one of the men goes to the shearing-pen and 
hunts up the other herder, a Mexican they call John 
Sallies, and he saddles Ogden's horse, and the sheriffs 
all ride up close around him with their guns in hand, 
ready to take their prisoner to town. 

"Before starting, Ogden puts the ranch in John Sal- 
lies' hands and gives him orders about the shearing 
and where to graze the sheep, just as if he intended 



80 O. HENRY 

to be back in a few days. And a couple of hours after- 
ward one Percival Saint Clair, an ex-sheep-herder of 
the Rancho Chiquito, might have been seen, with a 
hundred and nine dollars — wages and blood-money — 
in his pocket, riding south on another horse belonging 
to said ranch." 

The red-faced man paused and listened. The whistle 
of a coming freight train sounded far away among the 
low hills. 

The fat, seedy man at his side sniffed, and shook 
his frowzy head slowly and disparagingly. 

"What is it, Snipy?" asked the other. "Got the 
blues again?" 

"No, I ain't," said the seedy one, sniffing again. 
"But I don't like your talk. You and me have been 
friends, off and on, for fifteen year; and I never yet 
knew or heard of you giving anybody up to the law 
— not no one. And here was a man whose saleratus 
you had et and at whose table you had played games 
of cards — if casino can be so called. And yet you in- 
form him to the law and take money for it. It never 
was like you, I say." 

"This H. Ogden," resumed the red-faced man, 
"through a lawyer, proved himself free by alibis and 
other legal terminalities, as I so heard afterward. He 
never suffered no harm. He did me favors, and I 
hated to hand him over." 

"How about the bills they found in his pocket?" 
asked the seedy man. 

"I put 'em there," said the red-faced man, "while 
he was asleep, when I saw the posse riding up. I was 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 81 

Black Bill. Look out, Snipy, here she comes ! We'll 
board her on the bumpers when she takes water at 
the tank." 



O. Henry 



The real name of O. Henry was William Sidney 
Porter. He was born about 1866 in North Carolina, 
but while he was still very young his parents removed 
to Tepcas, where he lived for several years on a ranch. 
His first journalistic work was done for the Houston 
Post. After a trip to Central America, Porter came 
back to Texas and acted as clerk in a drug store in 
Austin. It was while he was doing desultory writing 
for the newspapers in New Orleans that he began to 
exhibit remarkable skill in the writing of the short- 
story. A number of his stories were accepted by the 
New York magazines, and Ainslee's offered him an as- 
sured income of twelve hundred dollars a year if he 
would come to New York. From that time till his 
death in 191 o he wrote almost continuously for the 
magazines, finding a sure and profitable market for his 
wares. The public was greatly diverted by O. Henry's 
stories, which were, as a rule, extremely brief, com- 
pact, spirited, and full of sententious humor. His 
clever use of slang and colloquialisms gave to his work 
a flavor much relished by his contemporary country- 
men; but it is due to the local character of his phrase- 
ology that he has been little read and less understood 
abroad. It is not unlikely also that the permanent 
value of his work is somewhat impaired by those very 



82 O. HENRY 

qualities which render him so popm. ne present 

time. Nevertheless, his stories show a ^ood deal of 
excellent technique which cannot be disregarded in 
any estimate of their worth. 

Porter appears to have learned much of his art from 
Kipling, a number of whose methods and mannerisms 
he consciously or unconsciously adopted; it is prob- 
able that he was considerably influenced by Maupas- 
sant, to whom he has frequently been compared. The 
Hiding of Black Bill, though perhaps not the type of 
story which O. Henry most frequently wrote, presents 
him in his happiest — and most colloquial — vein. As 
an example of the surprise plot it is also deserving of 
examination. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

O. Henry: 

Cooper, F. T. : American Story Tellers, pp. 225-244. 
Bookman, 21 : 3 (Portrait) ; 31 : 131 ; 456 (Portrait) ; 

477 (Portrait) ; 37 : 381 ; 498; 601 ; 607. 
American, 70:605. 
Nation, 90 : 590. 
Dial, 48:413. 
Independent, 73 : 543. 
Craftsman, 18 : 576. 
Harper's Weekly, 54:31. 
Cosmopolitan, 53:655; 49 : 477. 
Current Literature, 45 : 519 ; 49 : 88. 

Stories by O. Henry : 
The Four Million. 
A Municipal Report. 
Strictly Business. 



THE HIDING OF BLACK BILL 83 

A Technical Error. 

The Third Ingredient. 

The Voice of the City. 

A Fog in Santone. 

A Night in New Arabia. 

While the Auto Waits. 

The Harbinger. 

The Plutonian Fire. 

A Lickpenny Lover. 

A Little Local Color. 

Calloway's Code. 

The Day Resurgent. 

A Ruler of Men. 

The Atavism of John Tom Little Bear. 

The Last of the Troubadours. 

The Trimmed Lamp. 

Brick-dust Row. 

The Gift of the Wise Men. 



THE SUBSTITUTE* 

By FRANgois Coppee 

He was hardly ten years old when he was arrested 
the first time, for vagrancy. 

This is what he said to the judges : 

"My name is Jean-Francois Leturc, and for six 
months I've been with the man who sings between 
two lanterns on the Place de la Bastille, scraping a cat- 
gut string. I say the chorus with him, and then I call 
out, 'Ask for the new song book, ten centimes, two 
sous.' He was always tipsy and he beat me. That's why 
the police found me the other night among those ruined 
houses. Before that I was with the fellow who sells 
brushes. My mother was a washerwoman ; her name 
was Adele. A long time ago a gentleman made a home 
for her in a set of rooms on the ground floor, at Mont- 
martre. She was a good worker and was fond of me. 
She took in plenty of money, because she washed for 
the waiters in the cafe, and they need a good deal of 
linen. On Sundays she put me to bed early and went 
to the ball, but during the week she sent me to the Bro- 
thers' school, where I learned to read. But after a 
while the policeman who had his beat in our street used 

♦Translation by the editor. 

84 



THE SUBSTITUTE 85 

to stop at the window to talk to her, — a big man with 
a Crimean medal. They were married, and then things 
were different. He took a dislike to me and set mama 
against me ; everybody cuffed me about, and so in order 
to keep out of the house I used to stay whole days on 
the Place Clichy, where I made friends with some acro- 
bats. My stepfather lost his place and mama lost her 
customers ; she went to the wash-house to support her 
husband. It was there she got consumption, on ac- 
count of the steam. She died at Lariboisiere. She 
was a good woman. Since that time I've lived with the 
brush-vendor and the catgut scraper. Do you think 
I'll be sent to prison ?" 

He talked thus bluntly, cynically, like a man. He 
was a tattered little rascal as high as a boot, his fore- 
head hidden under a strange yellow mop of hair. 

Nobody interceding for him, he was sent to the Re- 
form School. Not particularly intelligent, lazy — above 
all, clumsy with his hands, he could learn there only 
a poor trade, reseating cane-bottomed chairs. Never- 
theless he was obedient, with a natural passivity and 
taciturnity, and he seemed not to be entirely corrupted 
in that school of vice. But when in his seventeenth 
year he was cast forth on the Parisian pavement, he 
found there to his misfortune, his comrades of the 
prison, horrible rogues plying their low trades. Some 
of them trained dogs to catch the rats in the sewers; 
some polished shoes, on the nights of the balls, in the 
Passage de l'Opera ; some were amateur wrestlers, let- 
ting themselves be downed by the Hercules of the side 
shows; and some fished from rafts in the river. He 



86 FRANCOIS COPPEE 

tried first one of these occupations and then another; 
and some months after his release from prison he was 
arrested again for petty theft: a pair of old shoes 
snatched from a show window. Result — a year in the 
prison of Sainte-Pelagie, where he served as a valet to 
the political prisoners. 

He lived, amazed, among this group of prisoners, all 
very young and carelessly dressed, who talked loud, 
and carried their heads in such a solemn way. They 
held meetings in the cell of the eldest among them, 
a bachelor of thirty years, shut up here long ago, and 
now permanently installed at Sainte-Pelagie : a big cell 
papered with colored caricatures, from the window of 
which one could see all Paris, its roofs, its belfries and 
domes, and far down, the distant lines of the hills blue 
and vague against the sky. On the walls there were 
some shelves full of books, and the old accoutrements 
of a fencing school : broken masks, rusty foils, jackets 
and gloves losing their padding. It was here that the 
political prisoners dined together, adding to the inevi- 
table soup and beef, fruits, cheese, and liters of wine 
which Jean-Frangois bought for them at the canteen. 
It was a tumultuous repast, interrupted by violent dis- 
putes, where they sang in chorus at dessert The Car- 
magnole and the Qa ira. But they assumed an air of 
dignity when they welcomed a newcomer, treating him 
first solemnly as "citizen," and the next day calling 
him by a nickname. They used big words there — Cor- 
poration, Solidarity, and phrases altogether unintelli- 
gible to Jean-Frangois, such as these, for example, 
which he once heard imperiously proclaimed by a hid- 



THE SUBSTITUTE 87 

eous little hunchback who spent whole nights in 
scribbling : 

"It is agreed : The Cabinet is made up in this way : 
Raymond will be in the Department of Public Instruc- 
tion, Martial in the Interior, and I in the Foreign 
Affairs." 

When his time was served, he wandered anew about 
Paris, watched from afar by the police after the man- 
ner of the May-bugs that cruel children allow to fly 
tied to a string. He became one of those shy and fugi- 
tive beings whom the law, with a sort of coquetry, ar- 
rests and releases by turns, imitating the platonic fish- 
ermen, who, in order not to empty their ponds, throw 
back into the water the fish just out of the net. 

Without suspecting that so much honor was done 
him, he had a special file in the records of the police 
headquarters ; his name and surnames were written in 
a clear hand on the gray paper of the cover, and the 
notes and reports, carefully classified, gave him the 
graduated appellations : "the man Leturc" ; "the ac- 
cused Leturc" ; and finally "the condemned Leturc. ,, 

He remained two years out of prison, living from 
hand to mouth, sleeping in lodgings, or sometimes in 
kilns, and taking part with others like him, in endless 
games of bouchon on the boulevard, near the gates. 
He wore a greasy cap on the back of his head, carpet 
slippers, and a short white blouse. When he had five 
sous he had his hair curled. He danced at Constant's, 
in Montparnasse. At the entrance to Bobino* he 

*A nickname for the Theatre du Luxembourg, founded in 
1816. 



88 FRANCOIS COPPEE 

bought for two sous, to sell them again for four, the 
knave of hearts or the ace of spades, which were used 
as counters. He opened carriage doors when he had 
a chance; he led old hacks to the horse market. He 
always had bad luck — in the conscription he drew a 
good number. Who knows whether the atmosphere 
of honor which one breathes in the army, the military 
discipline, would not have saved him? Caught by a 
swoop of the net, with some young marauders who 
were robbing the drunkards on the streets, he violently 
denied having had any part in the affair. Perhaps it 
was true. But his previous history served instead of 
proof, and he was sent to prison at Poissy for three 
years. There he made clumsy playthings for children ; 
he learned the cant of thieves and the penal code. A 
new release came, and a new plunge into the sewer of 
Paris life, — but very short this time, for at the end of 
barely six weeks he was compromised again in a noc- 
turnal theft aggravated by house-breaking — a mys- 
terious affair in which he played an obscure role, half 
dupe and half receiver. In the last analysis his com- 
plicity seemed evident, and he was condemned to five 
years at hard labor. His chief regret in this adven- 
ture was to be separated from an old dog that he had 
picked up on a rubbish heap and cured of the mange. 
The beast had loved him. 

Toulon, the ball at the ankle, work in the harbor, 
the blows of the cudgel, sabots without straw, soup of 
stale black beans,. no money for tobacco, and the hor- 
rible slumber on the vermin-infested bed of the con- 
vict, — that is all he knew for five torrid summers and 



THE SUBSTITUTE 89 

five bitter winters. He came out stupefied, and was 
sent under surveillance to Vernon, where he worked 
for some time on the river; then, incorrigible vaga- 
bond, in spite of his banishment he went back again 
to Paris. He had a little hoard of fifty-six francs — 
that is to say, time for reflection. During his long 
absence, his former wretched comrades had dispersed. 
He was well hidden, and lodged in a loft at the house 
of an old woman to whom he had given himself out as 
a sailor tired of the sea, having lost his papers in a 
recent shipwreck, and wanting to try another trade. 
His tanned face, his calloused hands, and some sea 
phrases which he let fall from time to time made this 
fiction appear sufficiently probable. 

One day when he had risked a stroll on the streets, 
and when chance brought him to Montmartre, where 
he was born, an unexpected remembrance stopped him 
before the door of the Brothers' school in which he 
had learned to read. As it was very warm, the door 
stood open, and at a glance Francois could recognize 
the study room. Nothing was changed: neither the 
hard light falling from the great window frames, nor 
the crucifix above the pulpit, nor the regularly graded 
desks with their leaden inkstands, nor the table of 
weights and measures, nor the map on which there 
were still the pins indicating the operations of some 
old war. Dreamily and half -unconsciously Jean-Fran- 
cois read on the blackboard the words of the Evan- 
gelist which the master's hand had traced as a copy : 

"There shall be more joy in heaven over one sinner 



90 FRANCOIS COPPEE 

that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons 
who need no repentance." 

It was doubtless the recreation hour, for the pro- 
fessor had quitted his chair, and seated on the edge 
of a table he seemed to be telling a story to the little 
fellow T s who were gathered around him listening in- 
tently, with their eyes upon him. What a gay and 
innocent visage was that of the beardless young man 
in the long black robe, with white cravat and big coarse 
shoes, and with brown hair badly cut standing up at 
the back of his head! All those pallid faces of the 
children who were gazing at him appeared less infan- 
tine than his, especially when, charmed with some 
frank priestly jest, he burst out into good, wholesome 
laughter which showed his sound even teeth, — a laugh 
so infectious that all the pupils broke out noisily in 
their turn. And it was sweet and simple, this group 
in the pleasant sunlight that made the clear eyes glisten 
and the blond hair shine. 

Jean-Frangois contemplated it for some time in 
silence, and for the first time in that savage nature, all 
instinct and appetite, a soft mysterious emotion awak- 
ened. His heart, that rude hard heart which neither 
the cudgel nor the heavy whip of the keeper had ever 
moved, now beat almost to suffocation. Before this 
scene, the image of his own childhood, his eyelids 
closed in grief, and checking a violent gesture, a prey 
to the torture of regret, he strode rapidly away. 

The words written on the blackboard returned to 
him in thought : 

"Perhaps it's not too late after all," he murmured. 



THE SUBSTITUTE 91 

"If I could eat my white bread honestly as others do, 
and sleep out the night without nightmare ! The spy 
that could recognize me now would be the very devil. 
My beard, which I shaved down there, has grown 
again, stiff and thick. One can hide himself in this 
big ant-hill, and there's no lack of work. Anyone who 
comes out alive from the torture of the prison is quick 
and strong, and I have learned to climb ladders with a 
load on my back. They are building everywhere here, 
and the masons need helpers. Three francs a day, and 
I've never earned so much. If they'll only forget me, 
—that's all I ask." 

He followed his courageous resolution, and was 
faithful to it ; three months later he was another man. 
His foreman spoke of him as his best worker. After 
the long day, passed on the ladder, in the hot sun, in 
the dust, constantly bending and straightening his back 
in order to take the stones from the man below him 
and pass them on to the man above, he came home to 
his meal at the chop-house, his back lame and sore, 
his legs heavy, his hands burning, and his eyelashes 
stuck together with plaster, but content with himself 
and carrying his hard-earned money in a knot in his 
handkerchief. He went out now without fearing any- 
thing, for his white mask made him unrecognizable; 
and besides he had noticed that the suspicious glances 
of the police do not often rest upon the real working- 
man. He was silent and sober. He slept the solid 
sleep of weariness. He was free. 

At last, supreme reward! he had a friend. 

This friend was a mason like himself, named Sav- 



92 FRANCOIS COPPEE 

inien, a little red-cheeked peasant from Limoges, who 
had come to Paris with a bundle on a stick over his 
shoulder; he kept away from the wine merchants and 
went to mass on Sunday. Jean-Frangois liked him for 
his wholesome nature, his innocence, and his honesty — 
for all that he himself had lost long ago. His passion 
was deep, restrained, betraying itself by the care and 
forethought of a father. Savinien himself, with his 
soft and selfish nature, let things take their course, sat- 
isfied to have found a comrade who shared his horror 
of the cabaret. The two friends lived together in a 
furnished room neatly kept, but their means were ex- 
tremely limited, and they had to share their quarters 
with a third workman, an old man from Auvergne, 
somber and grasping, who found ways of saving his 
meagre wages in order to buy land at home. 

Jean-Francois and Savinien were scarcely ever sep- 
arated. On Sundays and holidays they went together 
for long walks in the suburbs of Paris, and dined in 
an arbor at one of those little country restaurants 
where there are plenty of mushrooms in the sauces and 
innocent puzzles at the bottoms of the plates. Jean- 
Frangois on these trips made his friend tell him all 
those things which are unknown to people born in the 
cities. He learned the names of trees, flowers, and 
plants, the seasons of the various harvests; he listened 
eagerly to the thousand details of the heavy labor on 
the farm: the autumn sowing, the winter work, the 
splendid feasts of the vintage and the harvest home; 
the flails beating the earth, the noise of the mills on 
the edge of the stream, the tired horses led to the 



THE SUBSTITUTE 93 

watering place, the morning hunt in the mists; and, 
above all, the long evenings around the lire of grape- 
branches, evenings shortened by marvelous tales. He 
discovered in himself the springs of an imagination 
hitherto unsuspected, finding a singular delight in the 
mere recital of these things, so sweet, calm, and mo- 
notonous. 

A fear troubled him sometimes — that Savinien 
might come to know his past. Sometimes there es- 
caped him a revolting bit of slang, an ignoble gesture, 
relics of his former horrible existence, and he felt 
the grief of a man whose old wounds open again — 
especially as he thought he saw awaken in Savinien an 
unwholesome curiosity. When the young man, already 
tempted by the pleasures which Paris offers even to the 
poorest, questioned him about the mysteries of the 
great city, Jean-Frangois feigned ignorance, and 
changed the subject. But at those times he felt vaguely 
disquieted as to the future of his friend. 

This feeling was not without foundation; Savinien 
could not long remain the naive rustic that he was 
when he arrived in Paris. If the gross and riotous 
pleasures of the cabarets were still repugnant to him, 
he was deeply troubled by other desires full of danger 
for the inexperience of his twenty years. When spring 
came, he began to keep to himself, and to wander be- 
fore the gaily lighted entrance of the dance halls, 
where he saw girls going in by twos, bareheaded, with 
their arms around each other and speaking in low 
tones. Then, one evening when the lilacs were in blos- 
som, and when the appeal of the music was irresistible, 



94 FRANCOIS COPPEE 

he crossed the threshold ; from that time Jean-Frangois 
saw a gradual change in his manners and his looks. 
Savinien became more careful in his dress, more lavish 
in his expenditures. Often he borrowed money from 
his friend's scanty savings, and forgot to pay it back. 
Jean-Francois, feeling himself deserted, was divided 
between jealousy and forgiveness ; he suffered and kept 
still. He did not think that he had any right to re- 
proach; but his discerning affection had cruel and un- 
conquerable forebodings. 

One evening when he was climbing the stairs to his 
room, absorbed in his thoughts, he heard in the cham- 
ber which he was about to enter a dialogue of angry 
voices, one of which he recognized as that of the old 
man who lodged with him and Savinien. A fixed habit 
of suspicion kept him waiting on the landing, and he 
listened to hear the cause of the trouble. 

"Yes," said the old man wrathfully, "I am sure that 
someone has opened my trunk and stolen from it the 
three louis which I hid there in a little box; and the 
trick must have been done by one of the two fellows 
who sleep here, or Maria the servant-girl. The thing 
concerns you as much as it does me, for you are the 
master of the house, and I will drag you into court if 
you don't let me search the valises of the two masons. 
My poor savings — they were in their place last night, 
and I'll tell you what they were like, so that if we find 
them again, you will not accuse me of lying. Oh, I 
know them, my three beautiful gold pieces, and I see 
them as plainly as I see you. There is one a little 
more worn than the others, of a greenish cast, and it 



THE SUBSTITUTE 05 

bears the portrait of the great Emperor; another had 
on it a fat old fellow with a pig-tail and epaulettes; 
and the third had a Philip with side-whiskers, and I 
had marked it with my teeth. Nobody can fool me. 
Do you realize that I need only two more to pay for 
my vineyard? Come, let's look through the duds of 
these fellows, or I'll call the police." 

"All right," answered the voice of the landlord; 
"we'll search with Maria. So much the worse if you 
do not find anything, and the masons get angry. You 
force me into it." 

Jean-Frangois' soul was filled with terror. He re- 
called the poverty of Savinien, and his petty borrow- 
ings, as well as the depressed manner of the last few 
days. But he could not believe him a thief. He heard 
the hard breathing of the old man from Auvergne, in 
the excitement of the search, and he clenched his hands 
against his breast as if to still the furious beating of 
his heart. 

"Here they are!" suddenly shouted the victorious 
miser. "Here they are, my louis, my dear treasure! 
And in the Sunday waistcoat of that little hypocrite 
from Limoges. Look, boss ! They are just as I told 
you. There's the Napoleon, and the man with the 
pig-tail, and the Philip that I marked with my teeth. 
See the dent. Oh, the little sneak, with his saintly air ! 
I should have suspected the other one. Ah, the scoun- 
drel ! He'll go to prison for this !" 

At this moment Jean-Frangois heard the well-known 
step of Savinien who was slowly coming up-stairs 



96 FRANCOIS COPPEE 

"He will betray himself," he thought. "Three 
stories — I have time enough." 

And pushing open the door, he entered, pale as 
death, into the chamber, where he saw the landlord 
and the bewildered servant-girl in a corner, and the 
man from Auvergne on his knees among the scattered 
clothes, lovingly kissing his gold pieces. 

"That's enough of this," he said in a dull voice. "It 
was I who took the money, and put it in my comrade's 
trunk. But I can't stand this. I'm a thief, but not 
a Judas. Go and get the police. I shan't run away. 
But it's necessary that I should say something to 
Savinien, who is just coming in." 

The little man from Limoges had indeed just ar- 
rived upon the scene ; seeing his crime discovered, and 
believing himself lost, he stood on the threshold, his 
eyes bulging, his arms relaxed. 

Jean-Frangois fell on his neck as if to embrace him ; 
he put his lips to Savinien's ear, and said in a plead- 
ing whisper, "Keep still!" 

Then turning toward the others : "Leave me alone 
with him. I will not run away, I tell you. Lock us in, 
if you want to, but leave us alone together." 

And with a compelling gesture, he showed them the 
door. 

Savinien, broken with anguish, had seated himself 
on the bed, and sat stupefied, with downcast eyes. 

"Listen," said Jean-Frangois, taking his hands. "I 
understand. You stole the three gold pieces in order 
to buy some trinket for a girl. That would have been 
worth six months of prison for you. But you get out 



THE SUBSTITUTE 97 

only to go back again ; and you would become an ha- 
bitue of the police courts and criminal trials. I know 
all about them. I've done my seven years at the Re- 
form School, a year at Sainte-Pelagie, three years at 
Poissy, five years at Toulon. Now don't be scared. 
It's all settled. I've taken this matter on my own 
shoulders." 

"Poor fellow!" cried Savinien; but hope was al- 
ready returning to his cowardly heart. 

"When the elder brother is following the flag, the 
younger stays at home," continued Jean-Frangois. 
"I'm your substitute, that's all. You love me a little, 
don't you ? Then I'm paid. Don't be a baby. Don't 
refuse. They would have got me anyway, one of these 
days, for I'm forbidden to come back to Paris. And 
then, you see, the life in prison won't be so hard for 
me as for you; I'm sure of that, and I shall not find 
fault if I am not doing you this service in vain, and if 
you swear to me that you will not steal again. Sav- 
inien, I have loved you dearly, and your friendship has 
made me very happy; for, thanks to it, I have kept 
honest and straight as long as I have known you, — 
as I might always have been, perhaps, if I had had 
a father to teach me to work and a mother to make me 
say my prayers. My only regret was to be useless to 
you, and to deceive you about myself. To-day I 
throw off the mask in saving you. It's all right. 
Come, good-bye. Don't whine; and embrace me, for 
I hear the big boots on the stairway. They are coming 
back with the police, and we must not appear to know 
each other too well before those fellows." 



98 FRANCOIS COPPEE 

He clasped Savinien hurriedly to his breast ; then he 
pushed him away as the door swung open. 

It was the landlord and the old man from Auvergne, 
with the police. Jean-Frangois sprang to the landing, 
held out his wrists for the handcuffs, and called out, 
laughing, "Forward, bad lot !" 

To-day he is at Cayenne, condemned for life as in- 
corrigible. 



Franqois Coppee 



Frangois Coppee made his reputation as a poet and 
playwright, but in America he is known chiefly through 
his short-stories and his novel, The Guilty Man. Cop- 
pee was born in Paris in 1842. His father held a small 
post in the civil service. The family means were ex- 
tremely limited, and Francois had little opportunity to 
prepare himself for any sort of literary work. He 
went to school at the Lycee St. Louis, and, as soon 
as an appointment could be secured for him, became 
a clerk in the War Department. When he was twenty- 
two years old he published his "Parnassan verses," 
which were favorably received. From 1869 to 1872 
he busied himself with one-act plays, a number of 
which were flatteringly successful. It was in his Le 
Passant that Sarah Bernhardt first won fame as an 
actress. For a time he served as Librarian of the 
Senate, and in 1878 he was made Archivist of the 
Comedie Francaise ; he kept this position until he was 
elected to the Academy in 1884. In 1888 he became 
an Officer of the Legion of Honor. In his later years 



THE SUBSTITUTE 99 

he returned to the Catholic Church, from which he 
had long before withdrawn. During the last decade 
of his life he occupied himself with matters of religion 
and public interest. He died in 1908. 

Coppee was frequently called "the poet of the 
humble." His narrative and lyric themes were 
drawn largely from the lives of the Parisian 
workman and the small trader. He knew the common 
people well and took delight in expressing their simple 
emotions and their attitude toward the larger life 
about them. His prose, which was all written after 
^7Sy was concerned with much the same subjects as 
his poetry. It includes An Idyll During the Siege, Hen- 
riette, Sunset (Le Coucher de Soleil), The True 
Riches, and The Guilty Man (Le Coupable), a study in 
criminal psychology, published in 1896. This last 
named work has attracted a good deal of attention in 
America. Coppee is undoubtedly a sentimentalist. 
Much of his writing lacks something of restraint and 
good taste. In The Substitute, however, as well as in 
some of his other short-stories, he has luckily avoided 
the faults which disfigure the mass of his work. 



bibliography 
Francois Coppee: 

Lescure, M. F. : Coppee, l'homme, la vie, et Toeuvre. 
Driulhet: Un poete francais: Frangois Coppee. 
Anspach, Alfred: Frangois Coppee (in French). 
Matthews, Brander: Aspects of Fiction. 
Prothero, R. E. : Modern French Poets, p. 331. 
Current Literature, 45 : 49. 



100 FRANCOIS COPPEE 

Bookman, 27 : 455. 

Catholic World, 88: 182-192. 

Nation, 86 : 484. 

Review of Reviews, 38 : 1 10. 

Stories by Coppee : 

The Vices of the Captain. 

The Sabots of Little Wolff. 

My Friend Meurtrier. 

A Bit of Bread. 

The Vitriol Thrower. 

In the Light of Day. 

Baked Apples. 

A Voluntary Death. 

The Number of the Regiment. 

An Accident. 

Love Letters. 

Jealousy. 

The Medal. 

The Lost Child. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

By Washington Irving 

(The following tale was found among the papers of 
the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of 
New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history 
of the province, and the manners of the descendants 
from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, 
however, did not lie so much among books as among 
men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his fav- 
orite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and 
still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so in- 
valuable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he 
happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut 
up in its low- roofed farmhouse, under a spreading 
sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume 
of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book- 
worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of 
the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, 
which he published some years since. There have been 
various opinions as to the literary character of his 
work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than 
it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, 

IOI 



102 WASHINGTON IRVING 

which indeed was a little questioned on its first appear- 
ance, but has since been completely established; and 
it is now admitted into all historical collections as a 
book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication 
of his work, and now that he is dead and gone it can- 
not do much harm to his memory to say that his time 
might have been much better employed in weightier 
labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his 
own way; and though it did now and then kick up the 
dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors and grieve the 
spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest 
deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are 
remembered "more in sorrow than in anger"; and it 
begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure 
or offend. But however his memory may be appre- 
ciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folk 
whose good opinion is well worth having ; particularly 
by certain biscuit bakers, who have gone so far as to 
imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes, and have 
thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal 
to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal or a Queen 
Anne's farthing.) 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — Cartwwght. 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must 
remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a dis- 
membered branch of the great Appalachian family, and 



RIP VAN WINKLE 103 

are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to 
a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding 
country. Every change of season, every change of 
weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some 
change in the magical hues and shapes of these moun- 
tains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far 
and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather 
is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, 
and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; 
but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloud- 
less, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their 
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will 
glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager 
may have descried the light smoke curling up from a 
village whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just 
where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the 
fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little vil- 
lage of great antiquity, having been founded by some 
of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the prov- 
ince, just about the beginning of the government 
of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in 
peace!), and there were some of the houses of the 
original settlers standing within a few years, with lat- 
tice windows, gable fronts surmounted with weather- 
cocks, and built of small yellow bricks brought from 
Holland. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-- worn 
and weatherbeaten), there lived many years since, 
while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, 



104 WASHINGTON IRVING 

a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van 
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles 
who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter 
Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort 
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the 
martial character of his ancestors. I have observed 
that he was a simple, good-natured man ; he was, more- 
over, a kind neighbor and an obedient, henpecked hus- 
band. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be 
owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such 
universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be 
obsequious and conciliating abroad who are under the 
discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubt- 
less, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery fur- 
nace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is 
worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the 
virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant 
wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a 
tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was 
thrice blessed. 

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all 
the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the 
amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and 
never failed, whenever they talked those matters over 
in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on 
Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, 
would shout with joy whenever he approached. He as- 
sisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught 
them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long 
stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he 
went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by 



RIP VAN WINKLE 105 

a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on 
his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout 
the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper- 
able aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could 
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for 
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and 
heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a 
murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by 
a single nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his 
shoulder, for hours together, trudging through woods 
and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a 
few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never even 
refuse to assist a neighbor in the roughest toil, and was 
a foremost man at all country frolics for husking In- 
dian corn, or building stone fences. The women of the 
village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, 
and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging 
husbands would not do for them ; in a word, Rip was 
ready to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but 
as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, 
it was impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground 
in the whole country ; everything about it went wrong, 
and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were 
continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go 
astray or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to 
grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain 
always made a point of setting in just as he had some 



106 WASHINGTON IRVING 

outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial 
estate had dwindled away under his management, acre 
by acre, until there was little more left than a mere 
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the 
worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten 
in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with 
the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen 
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in 
a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had 
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does 
her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take 
the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever 
can be got with least thought or trouble, and would 
rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If 
left to himself, he would have whistled life away, in 
perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually din- 
ning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and 
the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, 
noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and 
everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent 
of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of re- 
plying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent 
use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoul- 
ders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. 
This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from 
his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, 



RIP VAN WINKLE 107 

and take to the outside of the house — the only side 
which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
was as much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van 
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause 
of his master's so often going astray. True it is, in 
all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was 
as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — 
but what courage can withstand the ever-during and 
all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The mo- 
ment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail 
drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs ; he 
sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a side- 
long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least 
flourish of a broomstick or ladle would fly to the door 
with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle 
as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never 
mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged 
tool that grows keener by constant use. For a long 
while he used to console himself, when driven from 
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
village, which held its sessions on a bench before a 
small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his 
majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in 
the shade, of a long lazy summer's day, talking list- 
lessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth 
any statesman's money to have heard the profound 



108 WASHINGTON IRVING 

discussions which sometimes took place, when by 
chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from 
some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen 
to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bum- 
mel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man, who 
was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in 
the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate 
upon public events some months after they had taken 
place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely con- 
trolled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, 
and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took 
his seat from morning till night, just moving suffi- 
ciently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a 
large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour 
by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It 
is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his 
pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every 
great man has his adherents), perfectly understood 
him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When 
anything that was read or related displeased him, he 
was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and send 
forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when 
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tran- 
quilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and some- 
times taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the 
fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod 
his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud- 
denly break in upon the tranquility of the assemblage, 



RIP VAN WINKLE 109 

and call the members all to nought; nor was that au- 
gust personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from 
the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged 
him outright with encouraging her husband in habits 
of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and 
his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the 
farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand 
and stroll away into the woods. Here he would some- 
times seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the 
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sym- 
pathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor 
Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's 
life of it; but never mind, my lad, while I live thou 
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf 
would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, 
and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he recipro- 
cated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, 
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest 
parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his 
favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still soli- 
tudes had echoed and reechoed with the reports of his 
gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in 
the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain 
herbage, that crowned the brow of the precipice. From 
an opening between the trees he could overlook all the 
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He 
saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below 
him, moving on its silent but majestic course, the re- 
flection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, 



HO WASHINGTON IRVING 

here and there sleeping on its grassy bosom, and at 
last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- 
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 
with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For 
some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was 
gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw 
their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that 
it would be dark long before he could reach the village, 
and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of en- 
countering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from 
a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van 
Winkle!" He looked around, but could see nothing but 
a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. 
He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and 
turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry 
ring through the still evening air : "Rip Van Winkle ! 
Rip Van Winkle!" — at the same time Wolf bristled 
up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his 
master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. 
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him ; 
he looked anxiously in the same direction, and per- 
ceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and 
bending under the weight of something he carried on 
his back. He was surprised to see any human being 
in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing 
it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of as- 
sistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at 



RIP VAN WINKLE m 

the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was 
a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, 
and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique 
Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped around the 
waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the 
sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoul- 
ders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made 
signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. 
Though rather shy and distrustful of this new ac- 
quaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and 
mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a 
narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then 
heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that 
seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft 
between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path 
conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing 
it to be the muttering of one of those transient thun- 
der showers which often take place in mountain 
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, sur- 
rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks 
of which impending trees shot their branches, so that 
you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the 
bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip 
and his companion had labored on in silence, for 
though the former marveled greatly what could be the 
object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild moun- 
tain, yet there was something strange and incompre- 



112 WASHINGTON IRVING 

hensible about the unknown that inspired awe and 
checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheater, new objects of won- 
der presented themselves. On a level spot in the cen- 
ter was a company of odd-looking personages playing 
at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outland- 
ish fashion: some wore short doublets, others jerkins, 
with long knives in their belts, and most had enormous 
breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. 
Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large 
head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of 
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was 
surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a 
little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various 
shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be 
the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a 
weatherbeaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, 
broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, 
red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in 
them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures 
in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie 
Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been 
brought over from Holland at the time of the settle- 
ment. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was that 
though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, 
yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mys- 
terious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy 
party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing in- 
terrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the 



RIP VAN WINKLE 113 

balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along 
the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they 
suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him 
with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, un- 
couth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart turned 
within him, and his knees smote together. His com- 
panions now emptied the contents of the keg into 
large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the 
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they 
quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then re- 
turned to their game. 

By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. 
He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, 
to taste the beverage, which he found had much of 
the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a 
thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the 
draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiter- 
ated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length 
his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his 
head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a 
deep sleep. 

On awakening, he found himself on the green knoll 
from whence he had first seen the old man of the 
glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny 
morning. The birds were hopping and twittering 
among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft 
and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," 
thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He re- 
called the occurrences before he fell asleep. The 
strange man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ra- 



114 WASHINGTON IRVING 

vine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the woe- 
begone party at ninepins — -the flagon — "Oh ! that flag- 
on! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip — "what excuse 
shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old fire- 
lock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the 
lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now 
suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had 
put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with 
liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had 
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a 
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, shouted 
his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his 
whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last even- 
ing's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to 
demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he 
found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his 
usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree 
with me," thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay 
me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a 
blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some 
difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the 
gully up which he and his companion had ascended 
the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a 
mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping 
from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up 
its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets 
of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes 



RIP VAN WINKLE 115 

tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that 
twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and 
spread a kind of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces 
of such opening remained. The rocks presented a 
high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came 
tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a 
broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the 
surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought 
to a stand. He again called and whistled after his 
dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock 
of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree 
that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in 
their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the 
poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the 
morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for 
want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog 
and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not 
do to starve among the mountains. He shook his 
head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart 
full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- 
ward. 

As he approached the village, he met a number of 
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur- 
prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
with everyone in the country round. Their dress, too, 
was of a different fashion from that to which he was 
accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks 
of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon 
him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant re- 



n6 WASHINGTON IRVING 

currence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to 
do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his 
beard had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A 
troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting 
after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, 
too, none of which he recognized for his old acquain- 
tances, barked at him as he passed. The very village 
was altered : it was larger and more populous. There 
were rows of houses which he had never seen before, 
and those which had been his familiar haunts had dis- 
appeared. Strange names were over the doors — 
strange faces at the windows — everything was strange. 
His mind now began to misgive him; he doubted 
whether both he and the world around him were not 
bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which 
he had left but the day before. There stood the Cats- 
kill Mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a dis- 
tance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it 
had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — "That 
flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor 
head sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty he found the way to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, ex- 
pecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame 
Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the 
roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors 
off the hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked like 
Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, 
but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 117 

This was an unkind cut, indeed — '"My very dog," 
sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame 
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was 
empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso- 
lateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called 
loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers 
rung for a moment with his voice, and then all again 
was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old re- 
sort, the little village inn — but it too was gone. A 
large rickety wooden building stood in its place, with 
great gaping windows, some of them broken, and 
mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the 
door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan 
Doolittle." Instead of the great tree which used to 
shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now 
was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the 
top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was 
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage 
of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incom- 
prehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the 
ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked 
so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly 
metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one 
of blue and buff, a sword was stuck in the hand in- 
stead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a 
cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large char- 
acters, General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
but none whom Rip recollected. The very character 



n8 WASHINGTON IRVING 

of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, 
bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the ac- 
customed phlegm and drowsy tranquility. He looked 
in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad 
face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds 
of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents 
of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bil- 
ious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, 
was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — 
election — members of Congress — liberty — Bunker's 
Hill — heroes of '76 — and other words, that were a 
perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van 
Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the 
army of women and children that had gathered at his 
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern poli- 
ticians. They crowded around him, eyeing him from 
head to foot, with great curiosity. The orator bustled 
up to him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired "on 
which side he voted ?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. 
Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the 
arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, 
"whether he was Federal or Democrat." Rip was 
equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a 
knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp 
cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting 
them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, 
and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one 
arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen 



RIP VAN WINKLE 119 

eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his 
very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "what 
brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, 
and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed 
a riot in the village?" "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, 
somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native 
of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God 
bless him!" 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — 
"A Tory! a Tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away 
with him !" It was with great difficulty that the self- 
important man in the cocked hat restored order; and 
having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded 
again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, 
and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly as- 
sured him that he meant no harm; but merely came 
in search of some neighbors, who used to keep about 
the tavern. 

"Well — who are they? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and then inquired, 
"Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was silence for a little while, when an old 
man replied in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Ved- 
der? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! 
There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that 
used to tell all about him, but that's rotted and gone, 
too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 
war; some say he was killed at the battle of Stony 
Point — others say he was drowned in a squall, at the 



120 WASHINGTON IRVING 

foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came 
back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia 
general, and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding himself 
thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, 
too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and 
of matters which he could not understand : war — Con- 
gress — Stony Point ! — he had no courage to ask after 
any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does no- 
body here know Rip Van Winkle?" 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, 
"Oh, to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, lean- 
ing against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- 
self, as he went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, 
and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now 
completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, 
and whether he was himself or another man. In the 
midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat 
demanded who he was, and what was his name? 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm 
not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — 
no — that's somebody else, got into my shoes — I was 
myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, 
and they've changed my gun, and everything's 
changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my 
name, or who I am !" 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, 



RIP VAN WINKLE 121 

nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about se- 
curing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing 
mischief; at the very suggestion of which, the self- 
important man in the cocked hat retired with some pre- 
cipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, likely 
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at 
the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby chijd in her 
arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. 
"Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool, the old 
man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air 
of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a 
train of recollections in his mind. "What is your 
name, my good woman?" asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name ?" 

"Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle ; it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his 
gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came 
home without him; but whether he shot himself, or 
was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I 
was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put 
it with a faltering voice : — 

"Where's your mother?" 

"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she 
broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New Eng- 
land peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
gence. The honest man could contain himself no 
longer. — He caught his daughter and her child in his 



122 WASHINGTON IRVING 

arms. "I am your father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van 
Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now! — Does no- 
body know poor Rip Van Winkle !" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, 
and peering under it in his face for a moment, ex- 
claimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is 
himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor. — Why, 
where have you been these twenty long years ?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
years- had been to him but as one night. The neigh- 
bors stared when they heard it; some were seen to 
wink at each other, and put their tongues in their 
cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the 
field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and 
shook his head — upon which there was a general 
shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of 
old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing 
up the road. He was a descendant of the historian 
of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts 
of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabi- 
tant of the village and well versed in all the wonder- 
ful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He 
recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in 
the most satisfactory manner. He assured the com- 
pany that it was a fact, handed down from his an- 
cestor the historian, that the Catskill Mountains had 
always been haunted by strange beings. That it was 
affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first dis- 



RIP VAN WINKLE 123 

coverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil 
there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half- 
Moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes 
of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the 
river, and the great city called by his name. That his 
father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses 
playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and 
that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the 
sound of their balls, like long peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
and returned to the more important concerns of the 
election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with 
her; she had a snug, well- furnished house, and a stout 
cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected 
for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his 
back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of 
himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed 
to work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary dispo- 
sition to attend to anything else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather 
the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred 
making friends among the rising generation, with 
whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived 
at that happy age when a man can do nothing with 
impunity, he took his place once more on the bench, 
at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the 
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old 
times "before the war." It was some time before he 
could get into the regular track of gossip, or could 



124 WASHINGTON IRVING 

be made to comprehend the strange events that had 
taken place during his torpor. How that there had 
been a revolutionary war — that the country had 
thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead 
of being a subject of his majesty, George III., he was 
now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, 
was no politician; the changes of states and empires 
made but little impression on him ; but there was one 
species of despotism under which he had long groaned, 
and that was — petticoat government ; happily, that 
was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of 
matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he 
pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van 
Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, how- 
ever, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and 
cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an ex- 
pression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his de- 
liverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that ar- 
rived at Dr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at 
first, to vary on some points every time he told it, 
which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently 
awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale 
I have related, and not a man, woman or child in the 
neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pre- 
tended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip 
had been out of his head, and that was one point on 
which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch 
inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full 
credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- 
storm of a summer afternoon, about the Catskills, but 



RIP VAN WINKLE • 125 

they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their 
game of ninepins ; and it is a common wish of all hen- 
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs 
heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting 
draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

Note. — The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had 
been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German 
superstition about the Emperor Frederick and the Kypp- 
hauser Mountain; the subjoined note, however, which he 
had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, 
narrated with his usual fidelity. 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to 
many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know 
the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been 
very subject to marvelous events and appearances. In- 
deed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the 
villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well 
authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked 
with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, 
was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational 
and consistent on every other point, that I think no con- 
scientious person could refuse to take this into the bar- 
gain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken 
before a country justice and signed with a cross, in the 
justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is be- 
yond the possibility of a doubt. 

"D. K." 

Postscript. — The following are traveling notes from 
a memorandum book of Mr. Knickerbocker: 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always 
been a region full of fable. The Indians considered them 



126 WASHINGTON IRVING 

the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather, spread- 
ing sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending 
good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old 
squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the 
highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors 
of day and night to open and shut them at the proper 
hour. She hung up the new moon in the skies, and cut 
up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if prop- 
erly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out 
of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from 
the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of 
carded cotton, to float in the air ; until, dissolved by the 
heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, caus- 
ing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn 
to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she 
would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst 
of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its 
web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the 
valleys ! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a 
kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest 
recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and took a mischiev- 
ous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations 
upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form 
of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter 
a weary chase through tangled forests and among ragged 
rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho ! ho ! leaving 
him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging 
torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It 
is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the moun- 
tains, and, from the flowering vines which clamber about 
it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighborhood, 
is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the 



RIP VAN WINKLE 127 

foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, 
with water snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the 
pond lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held 
in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest 
hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. 
Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his 
way penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a 
number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One 
of these he seized, and made off with it, but in the hurry 
of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept 
him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and 
the stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to 
flow to the present day ; being the identical stream known 
by the name of Kaaterskill. 



Washington Irving 

The facts in the life of Washington Irving scarcely 
need repetition. Everybody knows something of his 
character and his career. He was born in New York 
in 1783. His education was desultory and incomplete, 
but he read a vast amount of good eighteenth century 
literature, — a fact which explains the character of 
most of his work. He studied law and was admitted 
to the bar, but never practiced his profession. When 
he was a young man he went abroad for his health, 
and was well received by various distinguished people 
to whom he had letters of introduction. After his re- 
turn to America, in 1806, he wrote the Salmagundi 
Papers, a series of conventional eighteenth century 
essays. About this time occurred the death of his 



128 WASHINGTON IRVING 

fiancee, Matilda Hoffmann. In 1809 appeared the 
Knickerbocker's History of New York, written to 
divert his mind from grief. In 18 19 Irving published 
The Sketch Book, containing Rip Van Winkle, The 
Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and a group of essays which 
might have come from the hand of Goldsmith. His 
immense popularity dates from the appearance of The 
Sketch Book. He lived long in England, where the 
declining fortunes of the family kept him occupied 
with business details, in the midst of which he con- 
tinued to write. He died in 1859. His Life of Wash- 
ington and his Life of Columbus were his most am- 
bitious pieces of work, yet it is chiefly upon his short 
stories and sketches that he can base his claim to re- 
membrance. 

From 1820 to 1833 (approximately), the mawk- 
ishly romantic and pathetic short story abounded in 
the magazines, both American and English. Irving 
took the material at hand and turned it to his own 
uses. Yet the pathos, horror, and mystery so crassly 
employed by the rabble of writers he handled with a 
reserve and delicacy that made his stories classic. 
There is a tendency to disparage Irving as a mere 
word-monger, to forget the excellence of form which 
he developed and the standard of reserve which he set. 
He wrote his stories simply and without the inflated 
pomposity that prevailed at the time; he preserved a 
just proportion among introduction, main plot, inci- 
dent, and conclusion ; he mixed his pathos and mystery 
with humor, and restrained himself from those gushes 
of melancholy sentimentalism that disfigure the pages 



RIP VAN WINKLE 129 

of his contemporaries. Undoubtedly much of Irving's 
success with the short-story was due to the sense of 
form which he acquired from a conscious admiration 
and imitation of the best eighteenth century writers. 
The spirit of the material in his stories is Gothic, ro- 
mantic, even Hoffmannesque ; but the spirit of his 
method is Augustan. It is true that he did not achieve 
the "modern" short-story in the strictest sense ; never- 
theless he transformed the short discursive romantic 
tale into a narrative type of the highest value. Rip 
Van Winkle amply illustrates his technique and his 
success. 

bibliography 

Washington Irving: 

Warner, C. D. : Washington Irving. 

Boynton, H. M.: Washington Irving. 

Irving, P. M. : Life and Letters of Washington Irving. 

Payne, W. M. : Leading American Essayists. 

Curtis, G. W. : Literary and Social Essays. 

Bryant, W. C., and Putnam, G. P. : Studies of Irving. 

Wendell, Barrett: A Literary History of America. 

Stories by Irving: 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 

The Belated Travellers. 

The Spectre Bridegroom. 

The Devil and Tom Walker. 

The Bold Dragoon. 

Buckthorne. 

The Young Italian. 

The Pride of the Village. 



THE THIEF* 

By Feodor Dostoievski 

One morning, just as I was about to leave for my 
place of employment, Agrafena (my cook, laundress, 
and housekeeper all in one person) entered my room, 
and, to my great astonishment, started a conversation. 

She was a quiet, simple-minded woman, who dur- 
ing the whole six years of her stay with me had never 
spoken more than two or three words daily,, and that 
in reference to my dinner — at least, I had never heard 
her. 

"I have come to you, sir," she suddenly began, 
"about the renting out of the little spare room." 

"What spare room?" 

"The one that is near the kitchen, of course; which 
should it be?" 

"Why?" 

"Why do people generally take lodgers? Because." 

"But who will take it?" 

"Who will take it! A lodger, of course! Who 
should take it?" 

"But there is hardly room in there, mother mine, 

* Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. 
Collier & Son. From Short-Story Classics (Foreign), edited 
by William Patten. Used by permission of the publishers. 

no 



THE THIEF 131 

for a bed; it will be too cramped. How can one 
live in it?" 

"But why live in it ! He only wants a place to sleep 
in; he will live on the window-seat. ,, 

"What window-seat?" 

"How is that? What window-seat? As if you did 
not know ! The one in the hall. He will sit on it and 
sew, or do something else. But maybe he will sit on 
a chair; he has a chair of his own — and a table also, 
and everything." 

"But who is he?" 

"A nice, worldly-wise man. I will cook for him 
and will charge him only three rubles in silver a 
month for room and board " 

At last, after long endeavor, I found out that some 
elderly man had talked Agrafena into taking him into 
the kitchen as lodger. When Agrafena once got a 
thing into her head that thing had to be ; otherwise I 
knew I would have no peace. On those occasions when 
things did go against her wishes, she immediately fell 
into a sort of brooding, became exceedingly melan- 
choly, and continued in that state for two or three 
weeks. During this time the food was invariably 
spoiled, the linen was missing, the floors unscrubbed ; 
in a word, a lot of unpleasant things happened. I had 
long ago become aware of the fact that this woman 
of very few words was incapable of forming a de- 
cision, or of coming to any conclusion based on her 
own thoughts ; and yet when it happened that by some 
means there had formed in her weak brain a sort of 
idea or wish to undertake a thing, to refuse her per- 



132 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

mission to carry out this idea or wish meant simply 
to kill her morally for some time. And so, acting in 
the sole interest of my peace of mind, I immediately 
agreed to this new proposition of hers. 

"Has he at least the necessary papers, a passport, 
or anything of the kind?" 

"How then? Of course he has. A fine man like 
him — who has seen the world — He promised to pay 
three rubles a month." 

On the very next day the new lodger appeared in 
my modest bachelor quarters ; but I did not feel an- 
noyed in the least — on the contrary, in a way I was 
glad of it. I live a very solitary, hermit-like life. I 
have almost no acquaintance and seldom go out. Hav- 
ing led the existence of a moor-cock for ten years, I 
was naturally used to solitude. But ten, fifteen years 
or more of the same seclusion in company with a per- 
son like Agrafena, and in the same bachelor dwelling, 
was indeed a joyless prospect. Therefore, the pres- 
ence of another quiet, unobtrusive man in the house 
was, under these circumstances, a real blessing. 
I Agrafena had spoken the truth: the lodger was a 
man who had seen much in his life. From his pass- 
port it appeared that he was a retired soldier, which 
I noticed even before I looked at the passport. 

As soon as I glanced at him, in fact. 

Astafi Ivanich, my lodger, belonged to the better 
sort of soldiers, another thing I noticed as soon as I 
saw him. We liked each other from the first, and 
our life flowed on peacefully and comfortably. The 
best thing was that Astafi Ivanich could at times tell 



THE THIEF 133 

a good story, incidents of his own life. In the gen- 
eral tediousness of my humdrum existence, such a nar- 
rator was a veritable treasure. Once he told me a 
story which has made a lasting impression upon me; 
but first the incident which led to the story. 

Once I happened to be left alone in the house, Astafi 
and Agrafena having gone out on business. Suddenly 
I heard some one enter, and I felt that it must be a 
stranger; I went out into the corridor and found a 
man of short stature, and notwithstanding the cold 
weather, dressed very thinly and without an overcoat. 

"What is it you want?" 

"The Government clerk Alexandrov? Does he live 
here?" 

"There is no one here by that name, little brother; 
good day." 

"The porter told me he lived here," said the visitor, 
cautiously retreating toward the door. 

"Go on, go on, little brother; be off!" 

Soon after dinner the next day, when Astafi brought 
in my coat, which he had repaired for me, I once more 
heard a strange step in the corridor. I opened the 
door. 

The visitor of the day before, calmly and before 
my very eyes, took my short coat from the rack, put 
it under his arm, and ran out. 

Agrafena, who had all the time been looking at him 
in open-mouthed surprise through the kitchen door, 
was seemingly unable to stir from her place and 
rescue the coat. But Astafi Ivanich rushed after the 
rascal, and, out of breath and panting, returned empty- 



134 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

handed. The man had vanished as if the earth had 
swallowed him. 

"It is too bad, really, Astafi Ivanich," I said. "It 
is well that I have my cloak left. Otherwise the 
scoundrel would have put me out of service alto- 
gether." 

But Astafi seemed so much affected by what had 
happened that as I gazed at him I forgot all about 
the theft. He could not regain his composure, and 
every once in a while threw down the work which 
occupied him, and began once more to recount how 
it had all happened, where he had been standing, while 
only two steps away my coat had been stolen before 
his very eyes, and how he could not even catch the 
thief. Then once more he resumed his work, only to 
throw it away again, and I saw him go down to the 
porter, tell him what had happened, and reproach him 
with not taking sufficient care of the house, that such 
a theft could be perpetrated in it. When he returned 
he began to upbraid Agrafena. Then he again re- 
sumed his work, muttering to himself for a long time 
— how this is the way it all was — how he stood here, 
and I there, and how before our very eyes, no farther 
than two steps away, the coat was taken off its hanger, 
and so on. In a word, Astafi Ivanich, though he 
knew how to do certain things, worried a great deal 
over trifles. 

"We have been fooled, Astafi Ivanich," I said to 
him that evening, handing him a glass of tea, and 
hoping from sheer ennui to call forth the story of the 



THE THIEF 135 

lost coat again, which by dint of much repetition had 
begun to sound extremely comical. 

"Yes, we were fooled, sir. It angers me very much, 
though the loss is not mine, and I think there is noth- 
ing so despicably low in this world as a thief. They 
steal what you buy by working in the sweat of your 
brow — Your time and labor — The loathsome crea- 
ture ! It sickens me to talk of it — pfui ! It makes me 
angry to think of it. How is it, sir, that you do not 
seem to be at all sorry about it?" 

"To be sure, Astafi Ivanich, one would much sooner 
see his things burn up than see a thief take them. It 
is exasperating!" 

"Yes, it is annoying to have anything stolen from 
you. But of course there are thieves and thieves — 
I, for instance, met an honest thief through an acci- 
dent" 

"How is that? An honest thief ? How can a thief 
be honest, Astafi Ivanich ?" 

"You speak truth, sir. A thief cannot be an honest 
man. There never was such. I only wanted to say 
that he was an honest man, it seems to me, even 
though he stole. I was very sorry for him." 

"And how did it happen, Astafi Ivanich?" 

"It happened just two years ago. I was serving as 
house steward at the time, and the baron whom I 
served expected shortly to leave for his estate, so that 
I knew I would soon be out of a job, and then God 
only knew how I would be able to get along; and just 
then it was that I happened to meet in a tavern a poor 
forlorn creature, Emelian by name. Once upon a time 



136 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

he had served somewhere or other, but had been driven 
out of service on account of tippling. Such an un- 
worthy creature as he was! He wore whatever came 
along. At times I even wondered if he wore a shirt 
under his shabby cloak; everything he could put his 
hands on was sold for drink. But he was not a rowdy. 
Oh, no; he was of a sweet, gentle nature, very kind 
and tender to everyone; he never asked for anything, 
was, if anything, too conscientious — Well, you could 
see without asking when the poor fellow was dying 
for a drink, and of course you treated him to one. 
Well, we became friendly, that is, he attached himself 
to me like a little dog — you go this way, he follows — 
and all this after our very first meeting. 

"Of course, he remained with me that night; his 
passport was in order and the man seemed all right. 
On the second night also. On the third he did not 
leave the house, sitting on the window-seat of the cor- 
ridor the whole day, and of course he remained over 
that night too. Well, I thought, just see how he has 
forced himself upon you. You have to give him to 
eat and to drink and to shelter him. All a poor man 
needs is some one to sponge upon him. I soon found 
out that once before he had attached himself to a man 
just as he had now attached himself to me ; they drank 
together, but the other one soon died of some deep- 
seated sorrow. I thought and thought : What shall I 
do with him? Drive him out — my conscience would 
not allow it — I felt very sorry for him : he was such 
a wretched, forlorn creature, terrible! And so dumb 
he did not ask for anything, only sat quietly and 






THE THIEF 137 

looked you straight in the eyes, just like a faithful 
little clog. That is how drink can ruin a man. And 
I thought to myself : Well, suppose I say to him : 'Get 
out of here, Emelian ; you have nothing to do in here, 
you come to the wrong person ; I will soon have noth- 
ing to eat myself, so how do you expect me to feed 
youf And I tried to imagine what he would do after 
I'd told him all this. And I could see how he would 
look at me for a long time after he had heard me, 
without understanding a word; how at last he would 
understand what I was driving at, and, rising from 
the window-seat, take his little bundle — I see it before 
me now — a red-checked little bundle full of holes, in 
which he kept God knows what, and which he carted 
along with him wherever he went; how he would 
brush and fix up his worn cloak a little, so that it 
would look a bit more decent and not show so much 
the holes and patches — he was a man of very fine feel- 
ings ! How he would have opened the door afterward 
and would have gone forth with tears in his eyes. 

"Well, should a man be allowed to perish alto- 
gether? I all at once felt heartily sorry for him; but 
at the same time I thought : And what about me ? Am 
I any better off ? And I said to myself : Well, Eme- 
lian, you will not feast overlong at my expense ; soon 
I shall have to move from here myself, and then you 
will not find me again. Well, sir, my baron soon left 
for his estate with all his household, telling me before 
he went that he was very well satisfied with my ser- 
vices, and would gladly employ me again on his return 



138 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

to the capital. A fine man my baron was, but he died 
the same year. 

"Well, after I had escorted my baron and his fam- 
ily a little way, I took my things and the little money 
I had saved up, and went to live with an old woman I 
knew, who rented out a corner of the room she occu- 
pied by herself. She used to be a nurse in some well- 
to-do family, and now, in her old age, they had pen- 
sioned her off. Well, I thought to myself, now it is 
good-by to you, Emelian, dear man, you will not find 
me now ! And what do you think, sir ? When I re- 
turned in the evening — I had paid a visit to an ac- 
quaintance of mine — whom should I see but Emelian 
sitting quietly upon my trunk with his red-checked 
bundle by his side. He was wrapped up in his poor 
little cloak, and was awaiting my home-coming. He 
must have been quite lonesome, because he had bor- 
rowed a prayer-book of the old woman and held it up- 
side down. He had found me after all! My hands 
fell helplessly at my sides. Well, I thought, there is 
nothing to be done. Why did I not drive him away 
first off? And I only asked him : 'Have you taken your 
passport along, Emelian?' Then I sat down, sir, and 
began to turn the matter over in my mind: Well, 
could he, a roving man, be much in my way? And 
after I had considered it well, I decided that he would 
not, and besides, he would be of very little expense to 
me. Of course, he would have to be fed, but what 
does that amount to? Some bread in the morning 
and, to make it a little more appetizing, a little onion 
or so. For the midday meal again some bread and 



THE THIEF 139 

onion, and for the evening again onion and bread, and 
some kvass, and, if some cabbage-soup should happen 
to come our way, then we could both fill up to the 
throat. I ate little, and Emelian, who was a drinking 
man, surely ate almost nothing: all he wanted was 
vodka. He would be the undoing of me with his 
drinking ; but at the same time I felt a curious feeling 
creep over me. It seemed as if life would be a burden 
to me if Emelian went away. And so I decided then 
and there to be his father-benefactor. I would put 
him on his legs, I thought, save him from perishing, 
and gradually wean him from drink. Just you wait, 
I thought. Stay with me, Emelian, but stand pat 
now. Obey the word of command ! 

"Well, I thought to myself, I will begin by teaching 
him some work, but not at once; let him first enjoy 
himself a bit, and I will in the meanwhile look around 
and discover what he finds easiest, and would be capa- 
ble of doing, because you must know, sir, a man must 
have a calling and a capacity for a certain work to be 
able to do it properly. And I began stealthily to ob- 
serve him. And a hard subject he was, that Emelian! 
At first I tried to get at him with a kind word. Thus 
and thus I would speak to him : 'Emelian, you had bet- 
ter take more care of yourself and try to fix yourself 
up a little. 

" 'Give up drinking. Just look at yourself, man, 
you are all ragged, your cloak looks more like a sieve 
than anything else. It is not nice. It is about time 
for you to come to your senses and know when you 
have had enough.' 



140 . FE0D0R DOSTOIEVSKI 

"He listened to me, my Emelian did, with lowered 
head; he had already reached that state, poor fellow, 
when the drink affected his tongue and he could not 
utter a sensible word. You talk to him about cucum- 
bers, and he answers beans. He listened, listened to 
me for a long time, and then he would sigh deeply. 

" 'What are you sighing for, Emelian?' I ask him. 

" 'Oh, it is nothing, Astafi Ivanich, do not worry. 
Only what I saw to-day, Astafi Ivanich — two women 
fighting about a basket of huckleberries that one of 
them had upset by accident. 

'"Well, what of that?' 

" 'And the woman whose berries were scattered 
snatched a like basket of huckleberries from the other 
woman's hand, and not only threw them on the 
ground, but stamped all over them.' 

" 'Well, but what of that, Emelian?' 

" 'Ech !' I think to myself, 'Emelian ! You have lost 
your poor wits through the cursed drink !' 

" 'And again,' Emelian says, 'a baron lost a bill on 
the Gorokhova Street — or was it on the Sadova? A 
muzhik saw him drop it, and says, "My luck," but here 
another one interfered and says, "No, it is my luck! 
I saw it first. . . ." ' 

'"Well, Emelian?' 

" 'And the two muzhiks started a fight, Astafi 
Ivanich, and the upshot was that a policeman came, 
picked up the money, handed it back to the baron, and 
threatened to put the muzhiks under lock for raising 
a disturbance.' 



THE THIEF 141 

" 'But what of that? What is there wonderful or 
edifying in that, Emelian?' 

" 'Well, nothing, but the people laughed, Astafi 
Ivanich.' 

" 'E-ch, Emelian ! What have the people to do 
with it?' I said. 'You have sold your immortal soul 
for a copper. But do you know what I will tell you, 
Emelian ?' 

"'What, Astafi Ivanich?' 

" 'You'd better take up some work, really you 
should. I am telling you for the hundredth time that 
you should have pity on yourself !' 

" 'But what shall I do, Astafi Ivanich ? I do not 
know where to begin and no one would employ me, 
Astafi Ivanich.' 

" 'That is why they drove you out of service, Eme- 
lian; it is all on account of drink!' 

" 'And to-day,' said Emelian, 'they called Vlass the 
barkeeper into the office.' 

" 'What did they call him for, Emelian ?' I asked. 

" 'I don't know why, Astafi Ivanich. I suppose it 
was needed, so they called him.' 

" 'Ech,' I thought to myself, 'no good will come of 
either of us, Emelian! It is for our sins that God is 
punishing us !' 

"Well, what could a body do with such a man, 
sir! 

"But he was sly, the fellow was, I tell you! He 
listened to me, listened, and at last it seems it began 
to tire him, and as quick as he would notice that I was 
growing angry he would take his cloak and slip out — 



142 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

and that was the last to be seen of him! He would 
not show up the whole day, and only in the evening 
would he return, as drunk as a lord. Who treated him 
to drinks, or where he got the money for it, God only 
knows ; not from me, surely ! . . . 

" 'Well/ I say to him, 'Emelian, you will have to 
give up drink, do you hear? you will have to give it 
up! The next time you return tipsy, you will have 
to sleep on the stairs. I'll not let you in!' 

"After this Emelian kept to the house for two days ; 
on the third he once more sneaked out. I wait and 
wait for him ; he does not come ! I must confess that 
I was kind of frightened ; besides, I felt terribly sorry 
for him. What had I done to the poor devil ! I thought. 
I must have frightened him off. Where could he have 
gone to now, the wretched creature? Great God, he 
may perish yet! The night passed and he did not 
return. In the morning I went out into the hall, and 
he was lying there with his head on the lower step, 
almost stiff with cold. 

" 'What is the matter with you, Emelian ? The 
Lord save you ! Why are you here ?' 

" 'But you know, Astafi Ivanich/ he replied, 'you 
were angry with me the other day; I irritated you, 
and you promised to make me sleep in the hall, and 
I — so I — did not dare — to come in — and lay down 
here.' 

" 'It would be better for you, Emelian/ I said, filled 
with anger and pity, 'to find a better employment than 
needlessly watching the stairs V 

" 'But what other employment, Astafi Ivanich ?' 



THE THIEF 143 

" 'Well, wretched creature that you are,' here anger 
had flamed up in me, 'if you would try to learn the 
tailoring art. Just look at the cloak you are wearing ! 
Not only is it full of holes, but you are sweeping the 
stairs with it! You should at least take a needle and 
mend it a little, so it would look more decent. E-ch, 
a wretched tippler you are, and nothing more !' 

"Well, sir! What do you think! He did take 
the needle — I had told him only for fun, and there 
he got scared and actually took the needle. He 
threw off his cloak and began to put the thread 
through; well, it is easy to see what would come of 
it ; his eyes began to fill and reddened, his hands trem- 
bled! He pushed and pushed the thread — could not 
get it through:, he wetted it, rolled it between his 
fingers, smoothed it out, but it would not — go! He 
flung it from him and looked at me. 

" 'Well, Emelian!' I said, 'you served me right! If 
people had seen it I would have died with shame! I 
only told you all this for fun, and because I was angry 
with you. Never mind sewing; may the Lord keep 
you from sin! You need not do anything, only keep 
out of mischief, and do not sleep on the stairs and put 
me to shame thereby !' 

" 'But what shall I do, Astafi Ivanich ; I know my- 
self that I am always tipsy and unfit for anything! 
I only make you, my be — benefactor, angry for 
nothing.' 

"And suddenly his bluish lips began to tremble, and 
a tear rolled down his unshaven, pale cheek, then 
another and another one, and he broke into a very 



144 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

flood of tears, my Emelian. Father in Heaven ! I felt 
as if some one had cut me over the heart with a 
knife. 

" 'E-ch, you sensitive man ; why, I never thought ! 
And who could have thought such a thing! No, I'd 
better give you up altogether, Emelian; do as you 
please.' 

"Well, sir, what else is there to tell ! But the whole 
thing is so insignificant and unimportant, it is really 
not worth while wasting words about it ; for instance, 
you, sir, would not give two broken groschen for it; 
but I, I would give much, if I had much, that this 
thing had never happened! I owned, sir, a pair of 
breeches, blue, in checks, a first-class article, the devil 
take them — a rich landowner who came here on busi- 
ness ordered them from me, but refused afterward to 
take them, saying that they were too tight, and left 
them with me. 

"Well, I thought, the cloth is of first-rate qual- 
ity ! I can get five rubles for them in the old clothes 
market place, and, if not, I can cut a fine pair of panta- 
loons out of them for some St. Petersburg gent, and 
have a piece left over for a vest for myself. Every- 
thing counts with a poor man! And Emelian was at 
that time in sore straits. I saw that he had given up 
drinking, first one day, then a second, and a third, 
and looked so downhearted and sad. 

"Well, I thought, it is either that the poor fellow 
lacks the necessary coin or maybe he has entered on 
the right path, and has at last listened to good sense. 

"Well, to make a long story short, an important 



THE THIEF 145 

holiday came just at that time, and I went to ves- 
pers, When I came back I saw Emelian sitting on the 
window-seat as drunk as a lord. Eh! I thought, so 
that is what you are about! And I go to my trunk 
to get out something I needed. I look ! The breeches 
are not there. I rummage about in this place and 
that place : gone ! Well, after I had searched all over 
and saw that they were missing for fair, I felt as if 
something had gone through me ! I went after the old 
woman — as to Emelian, though there was evidence 
against him in his being drunk, I somehow never 
thought of him! 

"'No,' says my old woman; 'the good Lord keep 
you, gentleman, what do I need breeches for! can I 
wear them? I myself missed a skirt the other day. 
I know nothing at all about it.' 

" 'Well,' I asked, 'has anyone called here?' 

" 'No one called,' she said. 'I was in all the time ; 
your friend here went out for a short while and then 
came back ; here he sits ! Why don't you ask him ?' 

" 'Did you happen, for some reason or other, Eme- 
lian, to take the breeches out of the trunk ? The ones, 
you remember, which were made for the landowner?' 

" 'No,' he says, T have not taken them, Astafi 
Ivanich.' 

"'What could have happened to them?' Again I 
began to search, but nothing came of it! And Eme- 
lian sat and swayed to and fro on the window-seat. 

"I was on my knees before the open trunk, just in 
front of him. Suddenly I threw a sidelong glance 
at him. Ech, I thought, and felt very hot round the 



146 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

heart, and my face grew very red. Suddenly my 
eyes encountered Emelian's. 

" 'No,' he says, 'Astafi Ivanich. You perhaps think 
that I — you know what I mean — but I have not taken 
them/ 

" 'But where have they gone, Emelian ?' 

" 'No,' he says, 'Astafi Ivanich, I have not seen them 
at all' 

" 'Well, then, you think they simply went and got 
lost by themselves, Emelian?' 

" 'Maybe they did, Astafi Ivanich.' 

"After this I would not waste another word on him. 
I rose from my knees, locked the trunk, and after I 
had lighted the lamp I sat down to work. I was re- 
making a vest for a government clerk, who lived on 
the floor below. But I was terribly rattled, just the 
same. It would have been much easier to bear, I 
thought, if all my wardrobe had burned to ashes. 
Emelian, it seems, felt that I was deeply angered. It 
is always so, sir, when a man is guilty; he always 
feels beforehand when trouble approaches, as a bird 
feels the coming storm. 

" 'And do you know, Astafi Ivanich,' he suddenly 
began, 'the leech married the coachman's widow to- 
day.' 

"I just looked at him; but, it seems, looked at him 
so angrily that he understood : I saw him rise from 
his seat, approach the bed, and begin to rummage in 
it, continually repeating: 'Where could they have 
gone? Vanished, as if the devil had taken them!' 

"I waited to see what was coming; I saw that my 



THE THIEF 147 

Emelian had crawled under the bed. I could contain 
myself no longer. 

" 'Look here,' I said. 'What makes you crawl un- 
der the bed?' 

" 'I am looking for the breeches, Astafi Ivanich,' 
said Emelian from under the bed. 'Maybe they got 
here somehow or other.' 

" 'But what makes you, sir (in my anger I ad- 
dressed him as if he was— somebody ) , what makes 
you trouble yourself on account of such a plain man 
as I am; dirtying your knees for nothing!' 

" 'But, Astafi Ivanich — I did not mean anything — ' 
I only thought maybe if we look for them here we 
may find them yet.' 

" 'Mm ! Just listen to me a moment, Emelian !' 

'"What, Astafi Ivanich?' 

" 'Have you not simply stolen them from me like 
a rascally thief, serving me so for my bread and salt?' 
I said to him, beside myself with wrath at the sight 
of him crawling under the bed for something he knew 
was not there. 

" 'No, Astafi Ivanich.' For a long time he remained 
lying flat under the bed. Suddenly he crawled out and 
stood before me — I seem to see him even now — as ter- 
rible a sight as sin itself. 

" 'No,' he says to me in a trembling voice, shivering 
through all his body and pointing to his breast with 
his finger, so that all at once I became scared and could 
not move from my seat on the window. 'I have not 
taken your breeches, Astafi Ivanich.' 

" 'Well,' I answered, 'Emelian, forgive me if in my 



148 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKY 

foolishness I have accused you wrongfully. As to the 
breeches, let them go hang ; we will get along without 
them. We have our hands, thank God, we will not 
have to steal, and now, too, we will not have to sponge 
on another poor man; we will earn our living.' 

"Emelian listened to me and remained standing 
before me for some time, then he sat down and sat 
motionless the whole evening; when I lay down to 
sleep, he was still sitting in the same place. 

"In the morning, when I awoke, I found him sleep- 
ing on the bare floor, wrapped up in his cloak; he 
felt his humiliation so strongly that he had no heart 
to go and lie down on the bed. 

"Well, sir, from that day on I conceived a terrible 
dislike for the man; that is, rather, I hated him the 
first few days, feeling as if, for instance, my own son 
had robbed me and given me deadly offense. Ech, 
I thought, Emelian, Emelian! And Emelian, my 
dear sir, had gone on a two weeks' spree. Drunk 
to bestiality from morning till night. And during 
the whole two weeks he had not uttered a word. I 
suppose he was consumed the whole time by a deep- 
seated grief, or else he was trying in this way to make 
an end to himself. At last he gave up drinking. I 
suppose he had no longer the wherewithal to buy vod- 
ka — had drunk up every copeck — and he once more 
took up his old place on the window-seat. I remember 
that he sat there for three whole days without a word ; 
suddenly I see him weep; sits there and cries, but 
what crying! The tears come from his eyes in show- 
ers, drip, drip, as if he did not know that he was shed- 



THE THIEF 149 

ding them. It is very painful, sir, to see a grown 
man weep, all the more when the man is of advanced 
years, like Emelian, and cries from grief and a sor- 
rowful heart. 

" 'What ails you, Emelian ?' I say to him. 

"He starts and shivers. This was the first time I 
had spoken to him since that eventful day. 

" 'It is nothing — Astafi Ivanich.' 

" 'God keep you, Emelian ; never you mind it all. 
Let bygones be bygones. Don't take it to heart so, 
man!' I felt very sorry for him. 

" 'It is only that — that I would like to do something 
— some kind of work, Astafi Ivanich/ 

" 'But what kind of work, Emelian?' 

" 'Oh, any kind. Maybe I will go into some kind of 
service, as before. I have already been at my former 
employer's, asking. It will not do for me, Astafi 
Ivanich, to use you any longer. I, Astafi Ivanich, will 
perhaps obtain some employment, and then I will pay 
you for everything, food and all.' 

" 'Don't, Emelian, don't. Well, let us say you com- 
mitted a sin ; well, it is all over ! The devil take it all ! 
Let us live as before — as if nothing had happened!' 

" 'You, Astafi Ivanich, you are probably hinting 
about that. But I have not taken your breeches.' 

"'Well, just as you please, Emelian!' 

" 'No, Astafi Ivanich, evidently I cannot live with 
you longer. You will excuse me, Astafi Ivanich.' 

" 'But God be with you, Emelian,' I said to him ; 
'who is it that is offending you or driving you out of 
the house ? Is it I who am doing it ?' 



150 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

" 'No, but it is unseemly for me to misuse your 
hospitality any longer, Astafi Ivanich ; 'twill be better 
to go.' 

"I saw that he had in truth risen from his place and 
donned his ragged cloak — 'he felt offended, the man 
did, and had gotten it into his head to leave, and — 
basta. 

" 'But where are you going, Emelian ? Listen to 
sense : what are you ? Where will you go ?' 

" 'No, it is best so, Astafi Ivanich, do not try to 
keep me back,' and he once more broke into tears; 
'let me be, Astafi Ivanich, you are no longer what you 
used to be.' 

" 'Why am I not? I am just the same. But you 
will perish when left alone — like a foolish little child, 
Emelian.' 

" 'No, Astafi Ivanich. Lately, before you leave the 
house, you have taken to locking your trunk, and I, 
Astafi Ivanich, see it and weep — No, it is better 
you should let me go, Astafi Ivanich, and forgive me 
if I have offended you in any way during the time we 
have lived together.' 

"Well, sir! And so he did go away. I waited a 
day and thought : Oh, he will be back toward evening. 
But a day passes, then another, and he does not return. 
On the third — he does not return. I grew frightened, 
and a terrible sadness gripped at my heart. I stopped 
eating and drinking, and lay whole nights without 
closing my eyes. The man had wholly disarmed me! 
On the fourth day I went to look for him ; I looked in 
all the taverns and pot-houses in the vicinity, and 



THE THIEF 151 

asked if anyone had seen him. No, Emelian had 
wholly disappeared! Maybe he has done away with 
his miserable existence, I thought. Maybe, when in 
his cups, he has perished like a dog, somewhere under 
a fence. I came home half dead with fatigue and 
despair, and decided to go out the next day again to 
look for him, cursing myself bitterly for letting the 
foolish, helpless man go away from me. But at dawn 
of the fifth day (it was a holiday) I heard the door 
creak. And whom should I see but Emelian ! But in 
what a state! His face was bluish and his hair was 
full of mud, as if he had slept in the street; and he 
had grown thin, the poor fellow had, as thin as a rail. 
He took off his poor cloak, sat down on my trunk, and 
began to look at me. Well, sir, I was overjoyed, but 
at the same time felt a greater sadness than ever pull- 
ing at my heart-strings. This is how it was, sir: I 
felt that if a thing like that had happened to me, that 
is — I would sooner have perished like a dog, but would 
not have returned. And Emelian did. Well, naturally, 
it is hard to see a man in such a state. I began to 
coddle and comfort him in every way. 

" 'Well,' I said, 'Emelian, I am very glad you have 
returned; if you had not come so soon, you would 
not have found me in, as I intended to go hunting for 
you. Have you had anything to eat ?' 

" 'I have eaten, Astafi Ivanich.' 

' 'I doubt it. Well, here is some cabbage soup — 
left over from yesterday ; a nice soup with some meat 
in it — not the meagre. kind. And here you have some 



152 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

bread and a little onion. Go ahead and eat ; it will do 
you good.' 

"I served it to him; and immediately realized that 
he must have been starving for the last three days — 
such an appetite as he showed! So it was hunger 
that had driven him back to me. Looking at the poor 
fellow, I was deeply touched, and decided to run 
into the nearby dram-shop. I will get him some vodka, 
I thought, to liven him up a bit and make peace with 
him. It is enough. I have nothing against the poor 
devil any longer. And so I brought the vodka and 
said to him: "Here, Emelian, let us drink to each 
other's health in honor of the holiday. Come, take 
a drink. It will do you good.' 

"He stretched out his hand, greedily stretched it 
out, you know, and stopped; then, after a while, he 
lifted the glass, carried it to his mouth, spilling the 
liquor on his sleeve; at last he did carry it to his 
mouth, but immediately put it back on the table. 

" 'Well, why don't you drink, Emelian?' 

" 'But no, I'll not, Astafi Ivanich.' 

'"You'll not drink it!' 

" 'But I, Astafi Ivanich, I think— I'll not drink any 
more, Astafi Ivanich.' 

" 'Is it for good you have decided to give it up, 
Emelian, or only for to-day?' 

"He did not reply, and after a while I saw him lean 
his head on his hand, and I asked him : 'Are you not 
feeling well, Emelian ?' 

" 'Yes, pretty well, Astafi Ivanich.' 

"I made him go to bed, and saw that he was truly 



THE THIEF 153 

in a bad way. His head was burning hot and he was 
shivering with ague. I sat by him the whole day; 
toward evening he grew worse. I prepared a meal 
for him of kvass, butter, and some onion, and threw 
in it a few bits of bread, and said to him : "Go ahead 
and take some food ; maybe you will feel better !' 

"But he only shook his head: 'No, Astafi Ivanich, 
I shall not have any dinner to-day/ 

"I had some tea prepared for him, giving a lot of 
trouble to the poor old woman with whom I rented 
a part of the room — but he would not take even a 
little tea. 

"Well, I thought to myself, it is a bad case. On the 
third morning I went to see the doctor, an acquaint- 
ance of mine, Dr. Kostopravov, who had treated me 
when I still lived in my last place. The doctor came, 
examined the poor fellow, and only said : 'There was 
no need of sending for me ; he is already too far gone ; 
but you can give him some powders which I will 
prescribe.' 

"Well, I didn't give him the powders at all, as I 
understood that the doctor was only doing it for 
form's sake ; and in the meanwhile came the fifth day. 

"He lay dying before me, sir. I sat on the window- 
seat with some work I had on hand lying on my lap. 
The old woman was raking the stove. We were all 
silent, and my heart was breaking over this poor, 
shiftless creature, as if he were my own son whom I 
was losing. I knew that Emelian was gazing at me 
all the time : I noticed from the earliest morning that 
he longed to tell me something, but seemingly dared 



154 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

not. At last I looked at him, and saw that he did not 
take his eyes from me, but that whenever his eyes met 
mine, he immediately lowered his own. 

" 'Astafi Ivanich!' 

'"What, Emelian?' 

" 'What if my cloak should be carried over to the 
old clothes market, would they give much for it, Astafi 
Ivanich?' 

" 'Well,' I said, 'I do not know for certain, but three 
rubles they would probably give for it, Emelian.' I 
said it only to comfort the simple-minded creature; 
in reality they would have laughed in my face for 
even thinking to sell such a miserable, ragged thing. 

" 'And I thought that they might give a little more, 
Astafi Ivanich. It is made of cloth, so how is it that 
they would not wish to pay more than three rubles 
for it?' 

" 'Well, Emelian, if you wish to sell it, then of 
course you may ask more for it at first.' 

"Emelian was silent for a moment, then he once 
more called to me. 

" 'Astafi Ivanich !' 

" 'What is it, Emelian ?' 

" 'You will sell the cloak after I am gone; no need 
of burying me in it; I can well get along without it; it 
is worth something, and may come handy to you.' 

"Here I felt such a painful gripping at my heart 
as I cannot even express, sir. I saw that the sadness 
of approaching death had already come upon the man. 
Again we were silent for some time. About an hour 
passed in this way, I looked at him again and saw 



THE THIEF 155 

that he was still gazing at me, and when his eyes met 
mine he immediately lowered his. 

" Would you like a drink of cold water ?' I asked 
him. 

" 'Give me some, and may God repay you, Astafi 
Ivanich.' 

" 'Would you like anything else, Emelian ?' 

" 'No, Astafi Ivanich, I do not want anything, 
but I ' 

"'What?' 

" 'You know that ' 

" 'What is it you want, Emelian ?' 

" 'The breeches — You know — It was I who took 
them — Astafi Ivanich/ 

" 'Well,' I said, 'the great God will forgive you, 
Emelian, poor, unfortunate fellow that you are! De- 
part in peace.' 

"And I had to turn away my head for a moment 
because grief for the poor devil took my breath away 
and the tears came in torrents from my eyes. 

" 'Astafi Ivanich ! ' 

"I looked at him, saw that he wished to tell me 
something more, tried to raise himself, and was mov- 
ing his lips — He reddened and looked at me — ■ Sud- 
denly I saw that he began to grow paler and paler ; in 
a moment he fell with his head thrown back, breathed 
once, and gave his soul into God's keeping." 



F. M. Dostoievski 

Feodor Mikaylovitch Dostoievski, the author of 
The Thief, was born in Moscow in 1831, He was the 



156 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 

son of a surgeon in poor circumstances. Feodor 
studied at the Military School of Engineering, but left 
in 1843, before he had finished his course. In 1846 
he wrote Poor Folk, which brought him immediate 
fame, and temporarily mitigated his poverty, — at that 
time, as during most of his career, little short of des- 
perate. He now allied himself with the radical parties 
in Russia, and in 1849 was arrested on a charge of in- 
citing insurrection. Condemned to death, with half a 
dozen other men, he was saved upon the very scaffold 
by a commutation of his sentence to hard labor in Si- 
beria. After four years he was pardoned, but the suf- 
fering which he had undergone had left an ineffaceable 
mark upon his health and spirits. Nevertheless, it had 
deepened his sympathy for the poor and miserable, 
and given him great power in depicting the lives of the 
wretched. The direct result of his experiences found 
expression in his Memoirs of a Dead House, and 
Downtrodden and Oppressed (sometimes translated 
Injured and Insulted). His greatest work, Crime and 
Punishment, was written in 1866. This extraordinary 
book, though failing in compact construction, is one 
of the most powerful novels of the nineteenth century. 
Picturing situations of the most painful degradation, 
it yet escapes being revolting merely because of its 
sincerity and its quiet insistence on the triumph of the 
soul over squalor, impurity, and sin. Other novels by 
Dostoievski are The Idiot, The Possessed, and The 
Brothers Karamazov, — the last left unfinished at his 
death. The Thief, one of his few short-stories, gives 
an admirable idea of his material and method; it 



THE THIEF 157 

shows a simple and unaffected handling of a character 
of the humblest type, dignified, even though ridiculous, 
by reason of its intensely human error and misery. 

It must be noted that The Thief is much indebted to 
Gogol's The Cloak (or The Mantle), a story which, 
written in 1835, exercised an incalculable influence 
upon Russian and thence on French and English fic- 
tion. "We have all," said Turgenev, "issued from 
Gogol's mantle." The Cloak was the beginning of that 
unflinching and sordid realism which has since found 
its extreme objective expression in the fiction of Mau- 
passant and Gorki. Dostoievski's The Thief is written 
with more pity and insight than Gogol's The Cloak, 
and its influence has been nearly as great. It is worth 
noting, while we are making comparisons, that Steven- 
son's Markheim is a condensed and reconstructed ver- 
sion of certain chapters in Crime and Punishment, for 
which the Scotch romancer expressed the most ex- 
travagant admiration. Crime and Punishment was 
translated into French in 1884, by Victor Derely; later 
in that year, after Stevenson's return to Bournemouth 
from Hyeres, Markheim was written. It clearly 
shows the author's careful study of Raskolnikov. 

A translation of The Thief, by Constance Garnett, 
appears in Littel's Living Age, 261 1738. 

The student is recommended to read Gogol's The 
Cloak, which can be found in Collier's collection, For- 
eign Short-Stories, in four volumes, edited by William 
Patten. 



158 FEODOR DOSTOIEVSKI 



bibliography 
Feodor Dostoievski: 
Lloyd, J. A. T. : A Great Russian Realist. 
Phelps, W. L. : Essays on Russian Novelists. 
Merejkowski, Dmitri: Tolstoi as Man and Artist, 

with an Essay on Dostoievsky. 
Baring, Maurice : Landmarks in Russian Literature. 
The Bookman, 35 : 599. 
Current Literature, 49 : 92. 

Short Stories by Russian Authors : 

A Living Relic Ivan Turgenev. 

A Lear of the Steppes Ivan Turgenev. 

Mumu Ivan Turgenev. 

The Jew Ivan Turgenev. 

The Tryst Ivan Turgenev. 

Master and Man Leo Tolstoi. 

The Snowstorm Leo Tolstoi. 

Where Love Is Leo Tolstoi. 

Children Wiser Than Their 

Elders Leo Tolstoi. 

The Death of Ivan Ilyitch Leo Tolstoi. 

OrlofT and His Wife Maxim Gorki (pseud.) 

Tchelkache Maxim Gorki. 

The Song of the Falcon Maxim Gorki. 

The Cloak Nicholas Gogol. 

The Shot 1 Alexander Pushkin. 

Kirdjali Alexander Pushkin. 

Easter Eve V. G. Korolenko. 

A Red Flower V. M. Garshin. 

The Signal V. M. Garshin. 

Silence Leonidas Andreiyev. 

The Slanderer Anton Tchekhoy. 



THE KING OF BOYVILLE* 

By William Allen White 

Boys who are born in a small town are born free 
and equal. In the big city it may be different; there 
are doubtless good little boys who disdain bad little 
boys, and poor little boys who are never to be noticed 
under any circumstances. But in a small town, every 
boy, good or bad, rich or poor, stands among boys on 
his own merits. The son of the banker who owns a 
turning-pole in the back yard, does homage to the ba- 
ker's boy who can sit on the bar and drop and catch by 
his legs ; while the good little boy who is kept in wide 
collars and cuffs by a mistaken mother, gazes through 
the white paling of his father's fence at the troop 
headed for the swimming hok, and pays all the rev- 
erence which his dwarfed nature can muster to the sign 
of the two fingers. In the social order of boys who 
live in country towns, a boy is measured by what he 
can do, and not by what his father is. And so, Win- 
field Hancock Pennington, whose boy name was Piggy 
Pennington, was the King of Boyville. For Piggy 
could walk on his hands, curling one foot gracefully 
over his back, and pointing the other straight in the 

*Used by permission of the author and of the Macmillan 

Company. 

159 



160 WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 

air ; he could hang by his heels on a flying trapeze ; he 
could chin a pole so many times that no one could 
count the number ; he could turn a somersault in the air 
from the level ground, both backwards and forwards, 
he could "tread" water and "lay" his hair; he could 
hit any marble in any ring from "taws" and "knucks 
down," — and better than all, he could cut his initials 
in the ice on skates, and whirl around and around 
so many times that he looked like an animated shadow, 
when he would dart away up the stream, his red "com- 
fort" flapping behind him like a laugh of defiance.} In 
the story books such a boy would be the son of a 
widowed mother, and turn out very good or very bad, 
but Piggy was not a story book boy, and his father 
kept a grocery store, from which Piggy used to steal 
so many dates that the boys said his father must have 
cut up the almanac to supply him. As he never gave 
the goodies to the other boys, but kept them for his 
own use, his name of "Piggy" was his by all the rights 
of Boyville. 

There was one thing Piggy Pennington could not 
do, and it was the one of all things which he most 
wished he could do; he could not under any circum- 
stances say three consecutive and coherent words to 
any girl under fifteen and over nine. He was invited 
with nearly all of the boys of his age in town, to chil- 
dren's parties. And while any other boy, whose only 
accomplishment was turning a cartwheel, or skinning 
the cat backwards, or, at most, hanging by one leg and 
turning a handspring, could boldly ask a girl if he 
could see her home, Piggy had to get his hat and sneak 



THE KING OF BOYVILLE 161 

out of the house when the company broke up. He 
would comfort himself by walking along on the op- 
posite side of the street from some couple, while he 
talked in monosyllables about a joke which he and 
the boy knew, but which was always a secret to the 
girl. Even after school, Piggy could not join the 
select coterie of boys who followed the girls down 
through town to the postoffice. He could not tease 
the girls about absent boys at such times and make 
up rhymes like 

"First the cat and then her tail; 
Jimmy Sears and Maggie Hale," 

and shout them out for the crowd to hear. Instead 
of joining this courtly troupe Piggy Pennington went 
off with the boys who really didn't care for such 
things, and fought, or played "tracks up," or wrestled 
his way leisurely home in time to get in his "night 
wood." But his heart was not in these pastimes; it 
was with a red shawl of a peculiar shade, that was 
wending its way to the postoffice and back to a home 
in one of the few two-story houses in the little town. 
Time and again had Piggy tried to make some sign 
to let his feelings be known, but every time he had 
failed. Lying in wait for her at corners, and sud- 
denly breaking upon her with a glory of backward 
and forward somersaults did not convey the state of 
his heart. Hanging by his heels from an apple tree 
limb over the sidewalk in front of her, unexpectedly, 
did not tell the tender tale for which his lips could find 
no words. And the nearest he could come to an ex- 



162 WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 

pression of the longing in his breast was to cut her 
initials in the ice beside his own when she came weav- 
ing and wobbling past on some other boy's arm. But 
she would not look at the initials, and the chirography 
of his skates was so indistinct that it required a key; 
and everything put together, poor Piggy was no nearer 
a declaration at the end of the winter than he had been 
at the beginning of autumn. So only one heart beat 
with but a single thought, and the other took motto 
candy and valentines and red apples and picture cards 
and other tokens of esteem from other boys, and beat 
on with any number of thoughts, entirely immaterial 
to the uses of this narrative. But Piggy Pennington 
did not take to the enchantment of corn silk cigarettes 
and rattan and grape vine cigars ; he tried to sing, and 
wailed dismal ballads about the "Gypsy's Warning," 
and "The Child in the Grave With Its Mother," and 
"She's a Daisy, She's a Darling, She's a Dumpling, 
She's a Lamb," whenever he was in hearing distance 
of his Heart's Desire, in the hope of conveying to her 
some hint of the state of his affections; but it was 
useless. Even when he tried to whistle plaintively as 
he passed her house in the gloaming, his notes brought 
forth no responsive echo. 

One morning in the late spring, he spent half an 
hour before breakfast among his mother's roses, which 
were just in first bloom. He had taken out there all 
the wire from an old broom, and all his kite string. 
His mother had to call three times before he would 
leave his work. The youngster was the first to leave 
the table, and by eight o'clock he was at his task again. 



THE KING OF BOYVILLE 163 

Before the first school bell had rung, Piggy Penning- 
ton was bound for the schoolhouse with a strange- 
looking parcel under his arm. He tried to put his 
coat over it, but it stuck out and the newspaper that 
was wrapped around it bulged into so many corners 
that it looked like a home-tied bundle of laundry. 

"What you got ?" asked the freckle- faced boy, who 
was learning at Piggy's feet how to do the "muscle 
grind" on the turning-pole. 

But Piggy Pennington was the King of Boyville, 
and he had a right to look straight ahead of him, as 
if he did not hear the question, and say: 

"Lookie here, Mealy, I wish you would go and tell 
Abe I want him to hurry up, for I want to see him." 

"Abe" was Piggy's nearest friend. His other name 
was Carpenter. Piggy only wished to be rid of the 
freckle-faced boy. But the freckle-faced boy was not 
used to royalty and its ways, so he pushed his inquiry. 

"Say, Piggy, have you got your red ball-pants in 
that bundle?" 

There was no reply. The freckle-faced boy grew 
tired of tattooing with a stick, as they walked beside 
a paling fence, so he began touching every tree on the 
other side of the path with his fingers. They had gone 
a block when the freckle-faced boy could stand it no 
longer and said : 

"Say, Piggy, you needn't be so smart about your 
old bundle; now honest, Piggy, what have you got in 
that bundle?" 

"Aw — soft soap, take a bite — good fer yer appe- 
tite," said the King, as he faced about and drew up 



164 WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 

his left cheek and lower eyelid pugnaciously. The 
freckle-faced boy saw he would have to fight if he 
stayed, so he turned to go, and said, as though noth- 
ing had happened, "Where do you suppose old Abe 
is, anyhow?" 

Just before school was called, Piggy Pennington 
was playing "scrub" with all his might, and a little 
girl — his Heart's Desire — was taking out of her desk 
a wreath of roses, tied to a shaky wire frame. There 
was a crowd of girls around her admiring it, and spec- 
ulating about the possible author of the gift ; but to 
these she did not show the patent medicine card, on 
which was scrawled, over the druggist's advertise- 
ment: 

"Yours truly, W. H. P." 

When the last bell rang, Piggy Pennington was the 
last boy in, and he did not look toward the desk, where 
he had put the flowers, until after the singing. 

Then he stole a sidewise glance that way, and his 
Heart's Desire was deep in her geography. It was 
an age before she filed past him with the "B" class in 
geography, and took a seat directly in front of him, 
where he could look at her all the time, unobserved 
by her. Once she squirmed in her place and looked 
toward him, but Piggy Pennington was head over 
heels in the "Iser rolling rapidly." When their eyes 
did at last meet, just as Piggy, leading the marching 
around the room, was at the door to go out for recess, 
the thrill amounted to a shock that sent him whirling 
in a pinwheel of handsprings toward the ball ground, 



THE KING OF BOYVILLE 165 

shouting "Scrub — first bat, first bat, first bat," from 
sheer, bubbling joy. Piggy made four tallies that re- 
cess, and the other boys couldn't have put him out, if 
they had used a hand-grenade or a Babcock fire ex- 
tinguisher. 

He received four distinct shots that day from the 
eyes of his Heart's Desire, and the last one sent him 
home on the run, tripping up every primary urchin 
whom he found tagging along by the way, and whoop- 
ing at the top of his voice. When his friends met 
in his barn, some fifteen minutes later, Piggy tried 
to turn a double somersault from his springboard, to 
the admiration of the crowd, and was only calmed by 
falling with his full weight on his head and shoulders 
at the edge of the hay, with the life nearly jolted out 
of his little body. 

The next morning, Piggy Pennington astonished his 
friends by bringing a big armful of red and yellow 
and pink and white roses to school. 

He had never done this before, and when he had 
run the gauntlet of the big boys, who were not afraid 
to steal them from him, he made straight for his 
schoolroom, and stood holding them in his hands while 
the girls gathered about him teasing for the beauties. 
It was nearly time for the last bell to ring, and Piggy 
knew that his Heart's Desire would be in the room by 
the time he got there. He was not mistaken. But 
Heart's Desire did not clamor with the other girls 
for one of the roses. Piggy stood off their pleadings 
as long as he could with "Naw," "Why naw, of course 
I won't," "Naw, what I want to give you one for," 



166 WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 

and "Go way from here, I tell you," and still Heart's 
Desire did not ask for her flowers. There were but 
a few moments left before school would be called to 
order, and in desperation Piggy gave one rose away. 
It was not a very pretty rose, but he hoped she would 
see that the others were to be given away, and ask for 
one. But she — his Heart's Desire — stood near a win- 
dow, talking to the freckle- faced boy. Then Piggy 
gave away one rose after another. As the last bell 
began to ring he gave them to the boys, as the girls 
were all supplied. And still she came not. There was 
one rose left, the most beautiful of all. She went to 
her desk, and as the teacher came in, bell in hand, 
Piggy surprised himself, the teacher, and the school 
by laying the beautiful flower, without a word, on the 
teacher's desk. That day was a dark day. When a 
new boy, who didn't belong to the school, came up at 
recess to play, Piggy shuffled over to him and asked 
gruffly : 

"What's your name?" 

"Puddin' 'n' 'tame, ast me agin an' I'll tell you the 
same," said the new boy, and then there was a fight. 
It didn't soothe Piggy's feelings one bit that he 
whipped the new boy, for the new boy was smaller 
than Piggy. And he dared not turn his flushed face 
towards his Heart's Desire. It was almost four o'clock 
when Piggy Pennington walked to the master's desk 
to get him to work out a problem, and as he passed the 
desk of Heart's Desire he dropped a note in her lap. It 
read: 

"Are you mad?" 



THE KING OF BOYVILLE 167 

But he dared not look for the answer, as they 
marched out that night, so he contented himself with 
punching the boy ahead of him with a pin, and step- 
ping on his heels, when they were in the back part of 
the room, where the teacher would not see him. The 
King of Boyville walked home alone that evening. 
The courtiers saw plainly that his majesty was 
troubled. 

So his lonely way was strewn with broken stick- 
horses which he took from the little boys, and was 
marked by trees adorned with the string which he 
took from other youngsters, who ran across his path- 
way playing horse. In his barn he sat listlessly on a 
nail keg, while Abe and the freckle- faced boy did their 
deeds of daring, on the rings, and the trapeze. Only 
when the new boy came in did Piggy arouse himself 
to mount the flying bar, and, swinging in it to the 
very rafters, drop and hang by his knees, and again 
drop from his knees, catching his ankle in the angle 
of the rope where it meets the swinging bar. That 
was to awe the new boy. 

After this feat the King was quiet. 

At dusk, when the evening chores were done, Piggy 
Pennington walked past the home of his Heart's De- 
sire and howled out a doleful ballad which began : 



'You ask what makes this darkey wee-eep, 
Why he like others am not gay." 



But a man on the sidewalk passing said, "Well son, 
that's pretty good, but wouldn't you just as lief sing as 



i68 WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 

to make that noise." So the King went to bed with a 
heavy heart. 

He took that heart to school with him, the next 
morning, and dragged it over the school ground, play- 
ing crack the whip and "stink-base." But when he saw 
Heart's Desire wearing in her hair one of the white 
roses from his mother's garden — the Penningtons had 
the only white roses in the little town — he knew it 
was from the wreath which he had given her, and so 
light was his boyish heart that it was with an effort 
that he kept it out of his throat. There were smiles 
and smiles that day. During the singing they began, 
and every time she came past him from a class, and 
every time he could pry his eyes behind her geography, 
or her grammar, a flood of gladness swept over his 
soul. That night Piggy Pennington followed the girls 
from the schoolhouse to the postoffice, and in a burst 
of enthusiasm, he walked on his hands in front of the 
crowd, for nearly half a block. When his Heart's 
Desire said: 

"O ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself, doing 
that?" Piggy pretended not to hear her, and said to 
the boys : 

"Aw, that ain't nothin' ; come down to my barn, an* 
I'll do somepin that'll make yer head swim." 

He was too exuberant to contain himself, and when 
he left the girls he started to run after a stray chicken 
that happened along, and ran till he was out of breath. 
He did not mean to run in the direction his Heart's 
Desire had taken, but he turned a corner, and came up 
with her suddenly. 



THE KING OF BOYVILLE 169 

Her eyes beamed upon him, and he could not run 
away, as he wished. She made room for him on the 
sidewalk, and he could do nothing but walk beside 
her. For a block they were so embarrassed that 
neither spoke. 

It was Piggy who broke the silence. His words 
came from his heart. He had not yet learned to speak 
otherwise. 

''Where's your rose ?" he asked, not seeing it. 

"What rose ?" said the girl, as though she had never 
in her short life heard of such an absurd thing as a 
rose. 

"Oh, you know," returned the boy, stepping irregu- 
larly, to make the tips of his toes come on the cracks 
in the sidewalk. There was another pause, during 
which Piggy picked up a pebble, and threw it at a bird 
in a tree. His heart was sinking rapidly. 

"O, that rose?" said his Heart's Desire, turning full 
upon him with the enchantment of her childish eyes. 
"Why, here it is in my grammar. I'm taking it to 
keep with the others. Why?" 

"O, nuthin' much," replied the boy. "I bet you 
can't do this," he added, as he glowed up into her eyes 
from an impulsive handspring. 

And thus the King of Boyville first set his light, 
little foot upon the soil of an unknown country. 



William Allen White 

Mr. William Allen White, the author of The King 
of Boyville ', here given, is a journalist who is thor- 



170 WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 

oughly identified with the Middle West, where he has 
spent the greater part of his life. He was born in 
Emporia, Kansas, in 1868. He was educated in the 
schools of his native state, and won honors in the Uni- 
versity of Kansas. Before taking his degree, he left 
college in order to make an early beginning of a jour- 
nalistic career — in which he appears to have been suc- 
cessful from the first. In 1895 he became editor and 
proprietor of the Emporia Gazette, which he still 
owns, and edits as a daily and weekly paper. 

The fearlessness and brilliancy of its editorial ar- 
ticles have made the Emporia Gazette one of the best 
known periodicals in the country, and a power to be 
reckoned with in political issues. It was in the presi- 
dential campaign of 1896 that Mr. White made him- 
self and his paper actually famous by the publication 
of What's the Matter With Kansas f — an editorial ar- 
ticle of a daring and highly amusing character. The 
Republican National Committee had a million copies 
of this skit printed for distribution. Since that time, 
William Allen White and his Gazette have been con- 
stantly in favor with the public. 

The year before his sudden rise to fame, Mr. White 
published his The Real Issue, a collection of stories 
of Kansas life. One of these was The King of Boy- 
ville. In 1899 The Court of Boyville was published, 
after the stories that it contained had made a much- 
applauded appearance in the magazines. Stratagems 
and Spoils followed somewhat later. For a number 
of years Mr. White published little fiction, but con- 
tributed to the magazines many important articles, 



THE KING OF BOYVILLE . 171 

chiefly of a political nature. In 1909 his novel, A 
Certain Rich Man, was enthusiastically received, and 
was generally spoken of as "the great American 
novel. " It is indeed an excellent study of American 
life, and though not impeccable in construction makes 
a deep impression upon the reader. 

The Boyville stories are written with a keen sym- 
pathy for the impulses and absurdities of youth; their 
skillful use of homely detail and their spontaneous 
humor make them noteworthy examples of the short- 
story dealing with juvenile life. 

bibliography 
William Allen White: 

American Magazine, 62: 513; 67:218 (Portrait). 

Independent, 68 : 396 (Portrait) ; 6j : 546. 

Craftsman, 18:680 (Portrait). 

Bookman, 23 : 482 (Portrait). 

Reader, 6 : 568. 

World To-day, 17:1218. 

Stories by William Allen White: 
The Mercy of Death. 
A Victory for the People. 
The Real Issue. 

The Home-coming of Colonel Hucks. 
The Story of Aqua Pura. 
The Fraud of Men. 
The Martyrdom of Mealy Jones. 
A Recent Confederate Victory. 
"While the Evil Days Come Not." 
James Sears: A Naughty Person. 
Much Pomp and Several Circumstances. 
"The Herb Called Hearts-ease." 



THE FATHER* 

By Bjornstjerne Bjornson 

The man of whom this story tells was the richest 
in the parish. His name was Thord Overaas. He 
stood one day in the pastor's study, tall and serious. 
"I have gotten a son," he said, "and wish to have him 
baptized." 

"What is to be his name?" 

"Finn, in honor of my father." 

"And the sponsors?" 

They were named, and proved to be the best men 
and women of Thord's kin in the district. 

"Is there anything else?" asked the pastor, looking 
up. 

Thord hesitated a moment. "I should like to have 
my son baptized alone," he said. 

"That is to say on a week-day?" 

"On Saturday next, at twelve o'clock, noon." 

"Is there anything else?" asked the pastor. 

"There is nothing else," answered Thord, taking his 
cap to go. 

"Just one word," said the pastor, as he arose, 
stepped over to Thord, took him by the hand, and 

* Translated by Professor Julius Olson, Chairman of the 
Department of Scandinavian, in the University of Wisconsin. 

172 



THE FATHER 173 

looked him in the eye ; "God grant that this child may 
be a blessing to you." 

Sixteen years later Thord again stood in the pas- 
tor's study. 

"You are holding your own well, Thord," said the 
pastor, seeing no change in him. 

"I have no sorrows," answered Thord. 

To this the pastor made no response. But a moment 
later he asked: "What is your errand this evening?" 

"This evening I come concerning my son, who is 
to be confirmed to-morrow." 

"He is a clever lad." 

"I did not care to pay the parson's fee until I heard 
what rank the boy is to have in the class to-morrow." 

"He is to be at the head." 

"So I understand, and here are ten dollars for the 
pastor." 

"Is there anything else?" asked the pastor, looking 
at Thord. 

"There is nothing else." 

And Thord departed. 

Eight years had passed, when one day a bustling 
was heard at the pastor's study door; a number of men 
appeared, headed by Thord. The pastor looked up 
and recognized him. "You are out in full force this 
evening, Thord." 

"I have come to ask the banns for my son. He is 
to be married to Karen Storliden, the daughter of 
Gudmund, who is here with me." 

"Why, she is the richest girl in the district." 



174 BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON 

"So they say," answered Thord, thrusting his hand 
through his hair. 

The pastor sat a moment as in meditation. Without 
a word he entered the names in his books, and the men 
signed theirs. Thord laid three dollars upon the 
table. 

"The fee is only one," said the pastor. 

"Yes, I know; but he is my only child, and I wish 
to be generous." 

The pastor accepted the money. "This is the third 
time, Thord, that you have been here in behalf of your 
son." 

"Yes, and now I am done with him," said Thord; 
he closed his pocketbook, said good-by, and walked 
out, slowly followed by the others. 

Two weeks after that day father and son were row- 
ing across the calm surface of the lake to the Storliden 
farm to arrange for the wedding. 

"This seat does not seem to be right," said the son, 
and arose to adjust it. But as he stepped upon the 
floor-board, it slipped. He threw out his arms, uttered 
a shriek, and fell into the water. 

"Take hold of my oar!" shouted the father as he 
arose and thrust it out. The son struggled to do so, 
then suddenly became rigid. "Wait a moment!" 
called the father as he started to row. But the son 
rolled backward, cast a dim look at his father — and 
sank. 

Thord could not believe his eyes. He held the boat 
still, and stared at the spot where the son had sunk, 
expecting him to rise again. Some bubbles arose, 



THE FATHER 



175 



soon a few more, then only one large one that burst — ■ 
and the lake was again like a mirror. 

For three days and nights the father was seen row- 
ing around this spot without stopping to eat and sleep. 
He was dragging for his son. And on the third day, 
in the morning, he found him, and carried him up the 
hills to his home. 

It was perhaps a year after that day that the pastor 
late one autumn evening heard some one moving 
slowly in the hallway before his door, and fumbling 
cautiously for the latch. The pastor opened the door, 
and in stepped a tall man, thin, stooping, and white 
of hair. The pastor looked long at him before he 
knew him. It was Thord. 

"You are out late," said the pastor, as he stood 
facing him. 

"Yes, I am out late," said Thord, as he sat down. 

The pastor, too, sat down, expectant. There was a 
long silence. Then Thord said: "I have something 
with me which I should like to give to the poor. I 
wish to make it a legacy, bearing my son's name." He 
arose, laid the money upon the table, and then sat 
down again. 

The pastor counted it. "This is a good deal of 
money," he said. 

"It is half the price of my farm; I sold it to-day." 

The pastor remained sitting in silence a long time. 
Finally he asked in a kindly voice : "What do you in- 
tend to do now?" 

"Something better." 

They sat silent for a while, Thord with his eyes 



176 BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON 

on the floor, and the pastor with his eyes on Thord. 
Then the pastor said slowly and gently : "Now I think 
that your son has at last become a blessing to you." 

"Yes, I think so, too," said Thord. He looked up, 
and two tears ran slowly down his face. 



BjORNSTJERNE BjORNSON 

Bjornstjerne Bjornson, son of a Lutheran pastor de- 
scended from a race of early Norwegian kings, was 
born in 1832. After a childhood spent in isolated 
mountain places, such as he was later fond of de- 
scribing in his novels, he studied at the University of 
Christiania. Here he wrote articles for the newspapers, 
sketches, and dramas; before he was twenty he had a 
play accepted at the theater in Christiania. This early 
work dealt chiefly with the legendary history of Scan- 
dinavia; but his first novel, Synnove Solbakken 
(1857), which was immediately successful, was of the 
simple and idyllic type, with delightful touches of 
realism and local color. It was followed by several 
other stories of the same sort, — Arne, A Happy Boy, 
The Fisher Maiden, and The Bridal March. In his 
earlier years Bjornson also wrote a large amount of 
lyric and epic poetry of a very high order. For two 
years he was director of the theater in Bergen, and 
later he traveled extensively in Europe. 

The critics usually divide Bjornson's work into two 
periods : From 1857 to about 1872 ; thence to his death 
in 1910. Up to his fortieth year his work was literary 
and romantic, consisting chiefly of peasant idylls and 



THE FATHER 177 

historical dramas. In 1872 and the years follow- 
ing, Bjornson, as Tolstoi did in his middle life, under- 
went a series of intense theological struggles that 
strongly affected his writings. From the early seven- 
ties his work became more didactic, — more philosophi- 
cal, religious, and political. In his later life, he en- 
gaged in partisan strife, especially the Liberal fight for 
the political separation of Norway and Sweden. Al- 
though he was bitterly opposed by the Conservatists, 
his magnificent oratory and his large nobility of char- 
acter kept him still the idol of the greater mass of Nor- 
wegians. With Ibsen he shared the honors which 
Norway had to offer to genius and patriotism. A man 
of varied abilities and enormous intellectual force, he 
had many holds upon the Norwegian heart. Georg 
Brandes said of him that the mention of his name in a 
gathering of his countrymen was like running up the 
Norwegian flag. 

The Father, which is printed here, is , probably 
Bjornson's best known short-story. Railroad and 
Churchyard, another admirable tale, should be read 
with it for the carefully elaborated local color, which 
the extreme condensation of The Father does not 
permit. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 
BjORNSTJERNE BjORNSON I 

Payne, W. M. : Bjornstjerne Bjornson. 

Brandes, Georg: Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth 

Century, pp. 355 et seq. 
Boyesen, H. H. : Essays on Scandinavian Literature. 
Anderson, R. B. : Introduction to Synnove Solbakken. 



178 BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON 

Phelps, W. L. : Essays on Modern Novelists, pp. 82-98. 

Independent, 67 : 751. 

Dial, 48 : 107. 

Current Literature, 48 : 671 ; 49 : 321. 

Review of Reviews, 41 : 449. 

Stories by Bjornson * : 
Railroad and Churchyard. 
The Bridal March. 
Blakken. 
Thrond. 
Fidelity. 

The Problem of Life. 
The Bear Hunter. 
The Eagle's Nest. 

* See also an article by Bjornson on Modern Norwegian Lit- 
erature, Forum, 43 1360 ; 505. 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 

By Fitz-James O'Brien 

It is, I confess, with considerable diffidence, that I 
approach the strange narrative which I am about to 
relate. The events which I purpose detailing are of 
so extraordinary and unheard-of a character that I am 
quite prepared to meet with an unusual amount of in- 
credulity and scorn. I accept all such beforehand. I 
have, I trust, the literary courage to face unbelief. I 
have, after mature consideration, resolved to narrate, 
in as simple and straightforward a manner as I can 
compass, some facts that passed under my observation 
in the month of July last, and which, in the annals of 
the mysteries of physical science, are wholly unpar- 
alleled. 

I live at No. — Twenty-sixth Street, in this city. 
The house is in some respects a curious one. It has 
enjoyed for the last two years the reputation of being 
haunted. It is a large and stately residence, sur- 
. rounded by what was once a garden, but which is now 
only a green enclosure used for bleaching clothes. The 
dry basin of what has been a fountain, and a few fruit- 
trees, ragged and unpruned, indicate that this spot, in 
past days, was a pleasant, shady retreat, filled with 
fruits and flowers and the sweet murmur of waters. 

179 



i8o FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

The house is very spacious. A hall of noble size 
leads to a vast spiral staircase winding through its cen- 
ter, while the various apartments are of imposing 
dimensions. It was built some fifteen or twenty years 
since by Mr. A , the well-known New York mer- 
chant, who five years ago threw the commercial world 
into convulsions by a stupendous bank fraud. Mr. 

A , as everyone knows, escaped to Europe, and 

died not long after of a broken heart. Almost imme- 
diately after the news of his decease reached this coun- 
try, and was verified, the report spread in Twenty- 
sixth Street that No. — was haunted. Legal measures 
had dispossessed the widow of its former owner, and 
it was inhabited merely by a caretaker and his wife, 
placed there by the house agent into whose hands it 
had passed for purposes of renting or sale. These 
people declared that they were troubled with unnatural 
noises. Doors were opened without any visible agency. 
The remnants of furniture scattered through the vari- 
ous rooms were, during the night, piled one upon the 
other by unknown hands. Invisible feet passed up and 
down the stairs in broad daylight, accompanied by the 
rustle of unseen silk dresses, and the gliding of view- 
less hands along the massive balusters. The care- 
taker and his wife declared that they would live there 
no longer. The house agent laughed, dismissed them, 
and put others in their place. The noises and super- 
natural manifestations continued. The neighborhood 
caught up the story, and the house remained unten- 
anted for three years. Several persons negotiated for 
it; but somehow, always before the bargain was closed, 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 181 

they heard the unpleasant rumors, and declined to treat 
any further. 

It was in this state of things that my landlady — who 
at that time kept a boarding-house in Bleecker Street, 
and who wished to move farther up town — conceived 
the bold idea of renting No. — Twenty-sixth Street. 
Happening to have in her house rather a plucky and 
philosophical set of boarders, she laid down her 
scheme before us, stating candidly everything she had 
heard respecting the ghostly qualities of the establish- 
ment to which she wished to remove us. With the ex- 
ception of two timid persons — a sea captain and a re- 
turned Calif ornian, who immediately gave notice that 
they would leave, — all of Mrs. Moffat's guests de- 
clared that they would accompany her in her chivalric 
incursion into the abode of spirits. 

Our removal was effected in the month of May, and 
we were all charmed with our new residence. The 
portion of Twenty-sixth Street where our house is sit- 
uated — between Seventh and Eighth Avenues — is one 
of the pleasantest localities in New York. The gar- 
dens back of the houses, running down nearly to the 
Hudson, form, in the summer time, a perfect avenue 
of verdure. The air is pure and invigorating, sweep- 
ing, as it does, straight across the river from the Wee- 
hawken heights, and even the ragged garden which 
surrounded the house on two sides, although display- 
ing on washing days rather too much clothes-line, still 
gave us a piece of greensward to look at, and a cool 
retreat in the summer evenings, where we smoked our 



182 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

cigars in the dusk, and watched the fireflies flashing 
their dark lanterns in the long grass. 

Of course we had no sooner established ourselves at 
No. — than we began to expect the ghosts. We abso- 
lutely awaited their advent with eagerness. Our din- 
ner conversation was supernatural. One of the board- 
ers, who had purchased Mrs. Crowe's "Night Side of 
Nature" for his own private delectation, was regarded 
as a public enemy by the entire household for not hav- 
ing bought twenty copies. The man led a life of su- 
preme wretchedness while he was reading this vol- 
ume. A system of espionage was established, of which 
he was the victim. If he incautiously laid the book 
down for an instant and left the room, it was imme- 
diately seized and read aloud in secret places to a select 
few. I found myself a person of immense importance, 
it having leaked out that I was tolerably well versed 
in the history of supernaturalism, and had once written 
a story, entitled "The Pot of Tulips," for Harper's 
Monthly, the foundation of which was a ghost. If a 
table or a wainscot panel happened to warp when we 
were assembled in the large drawing-room, there was 
an instant silence, and everyone was prepared for an 
immediate clanking of chains and a spectral form. 

After a month of psychological excitement, it was 
with the utmost dissatisfaction that we were forced 
to acknowledge that nothing in the remotest degree ap- 
proaching the supernatural had manifested itself. 
Once the black butler asseverated that his candle had 
been blown out by some invisible agency while he was 
undressing himself for the night; but as I had more 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 183 

than once discovered this colored gentleman in a con- 
dition when one candle must have appeared to him like 
two, I thought it possible that, by going a step farther 
in his potations, he might have reversed his phenom- 
ena, and seen no candle at all where he ought to have 
beheld one. 

Things were in this state when an incident took 
place so awful and inexplicable in its character that my 
reason fairly reels at the bare memory of the occur- 
rence. It was the 10th of July. After dinner was 
over I repaired with my friend, Dr. Hammond, to the 
garden to smoke my evening pipe. Independent of 
certain mental sympathies between the Doctor and my- 
self, we were linked together by a secret vice — we both 
smoked opium. On the evening in question the Doc- 
tor and I found ourselves in an unusually metaphysical 
mood. We lit our large meerschaums, filled with fine 
Turkish tobacco, in the core of which burned a little 
black nut of opium ; we paced to and fro, conversing. 
A strange perversity dominated the currents of our 
thought. They would not flow through the sun-lit 
channels into which we strove to divert them. For 
some unaccountable reason they constantly diverged 
into dark and lonesome beds, where a continual gloom 
brooded. It was in vain that, after our old fashion, 
we flung ourselves on the shores of the East, and 
talked of its gay bazaars, of the splendors of the 
time of Haroun, of harems and golden palaces. Black 
afreets continually arose from the depths of our talk, 
and expanded, like the one the fisherman released from 
the copper vessel, until they blotted everything bright 



184 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

from our vision. Insensibly, we yielded to the occult 
force that swayed us, and indulged in gloomy specula- 
tion. We had talked some time upon the proneness of 
the human mind to mysticism, and the almost universal 
love of the Terrible, when Hammond suddenly said to 
me, " What do you consider to be the greatest element 
of Terror?" 

The question, I own, puzzled me. That many things 
were terrible, I knew. Stumbling over a corpse in the 
dark ; beholding, as I once did, a woman floating down 
a deep and rapid river, with wildly lifted arms, and 
awful, upturned face, uttering, as she sank, shrieks that 
rent one's heart, while we, the spectators, stood frozen 
at a window which overhung the river at a height of 
sixty feet, unable to make the slightest effort to save 
her, but dumbly watching her last supreme agony and 
her disappearance. A shattered wreck, with no life 
visible, encountered floating listlessly on the ocean, is a 
terrible object, for it suggests a huge terror, the pro- 
portions of which are veiled. But it now struck me for 
the first time that there must be one great and ruling 
embodiment of fear, a King of Terrors to which all 
others must succumb. What might it be? To what 
train of circumstances would it owe its existence ? 

"I confess, Hammond," I replied to my friend, "I 
never considered the subject before. That there must 
be one Something more terrible than any other thing, 
I feel. I cannot attempt, however, even the most vague 
definition." 

"I am somewhat like you, Harry," he answered. "I 
feelmy capacity to experience a terror greater than 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 185 

anything yet conceived by the human mind — something 
combining in fearful and unnatural amalgamation 
hitherto supposed incompatible elements. The calling 
of the voices in Brockden Brown's novel of 'Wieland' 
is awful ; so is the picture of the Dweller of the 
Threshold, in Bulwer's 'Zanoni' ; but," he added, shak- 
ing his head gloomily, "there is something more hor- 
rible still than these." 

"Look here, Hammond," I rejoined, "let us drop 
this kind of talk, for Heaven's sake !" 

"I don't know what's the matter with me to-night," 
he replied, "but my brain is running upon all sorts of 
weird and awful thoughts. I feel as if I could write a 
story like Hoffman to-night, if I were only master of a 
literary style." 

"Well, if we are going to be HofTmanesque in our 
talk, I'm off to bed. Opium and nightmares should 
never be brought together. How sultry it is! Good 
night, Hammond." 

"Good night, Harry. Pleasant dreams to you." 

"To you, gloomy wretch, afreets, ghouls, and en- 
chanters." 

We parted, and each sought his respective chamber. 
I undressed quickly and got into bed, taking with me, 
according to my usual custom, a book, over which I 
generally read myself to sleep. I opened the volume as 
soon as I had laid my head upon the pillow, and in- 
stantly flung it to the other side of the room. It was 
Goudon's "History of Monsters" — a curious French 
work, which I had lately imported from Paris, but 
which, in the state of mind I had then reached, was 



i86 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

anything but an agreeable companion. I resolved to go 
to sleep at once ; so, turning down my gas until nothing 
but a little blue point of light glimmered on the top of 
the tube, I composed myself to rest. 

The room was in total, darkness. The atom of gas 
that still remained lighted did not illuminate a distance 
of three inches round the burner. I desperately drew 
my arm across my eyes, as if to shut out even the dark- 
ness, and tried to think of nothing. It was in vain. 
The confounded themes touched on by Hammond in 
the garden kept obtruding themselves on my brain. I 
battled against them. I erected ramparts of would-be 
blankness of intellect to keep them out. They still 
crowded upon me. While I was lying still as a corpse, 
hoping that by a perfect physical inaction I should 
hasten mental repose, an awful incident occurred. A 
Something dropped, as it seemed, from the ceiling, 
plumb upon my chest, and the next instant I felt two 
bony hands encircling my throat, endeavoring to choke 
me. 

I am no coward, and am possessed of considerable 
physical strength. The suddenness of the attack, in- 
stead of stunning me, strung every nerve to its highest 
tension. My body acted from instinct, before my brain 
had time to realize the terrors of my position. In an 
instant I wound two muscular arms around the crea- 
ture, and squeezed it, with all the strength of despair, 
against my chest. In a few seconds the bony hands 
that had fastened on my throat loosened their hold, and 
I was free to breathe once more. Then commenced a 
struggle of awful intensity. Immersed in the most 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 187 

profound darkness, totally ignorant of the nature of 
the Thing by which I was so suddenly attacked, finding 
my grasp slipping every moment, by reason, it seemed 
to me, of the entire nakedness of my assailant, bitten 
with sharp teeth in the shoulder, neck, and chest, hav- 
ing every moment to protect my throat against a pair 
of sinewy, agile hands, which my utmost efforts could 
not confine — these were a combination of circum- 
stances to combat which required all the strength and 
skill and courage*that I possessed. 

At last, after a silent, deadly, exhausting struggle, I 
got my assailant under by a series of incredible efforts 
of strength. Once pinned, with my knee on what I 
made out to be its chest, I knew that I was victor. I 
rested for a moment to breathe. I heard the creature 
beneath me panting in the darkness, and felt the vio- 
lent throbbing of a heart. It was apparently as ex- 
hausted as I was ; that was one comfort. At this mo- 
ment I remembered that I usually placed under my 
pillow, before going to bed, a large yellow silk pocket 
handkerchief, for use during the night. I felt for it 
instantly ; it was there. In a few seconds more I had, 
after a fashion, pinioned the creature's arms. 

I now felt tolerably secure. There was nothing more 
to be done but to turn on the gas, and, having first seen 
what my midnight assailant was like, arouse the house- 
hold. I will confess to being actuated by a certain 
pride in not giving the alarm before ; I wished to make 
the capture alone and unaided. 

Never losing my hold for an instant, I slipped from 
the bed to the floor, dragging my captive with me. I 



188 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

had but a few steps to make to reach the gas-burner; 
these I made with the greatest caution, holding the 
creature in a grip like a vice. At last I got within 
arm's-length of the tiny speck of blue light which told 
me where the gas-burner lay. Quick as lightning I 
released my grasp with one hand and let on the full 
flood of light. Then I turned to look at my captive. 

I cannot even attempt to give any definition of my 
sensations the instant after I turned on the gas. I sup- 
pose I must have shrieked with terror, for in less than a 
minute afterward my room was crowded with the in- 
mates of the house. I shudder now as I think of that 
awful moment. / saw nothing! Yes; I had one arm 
firmly clasped round a breathing, panting, corporeal 
shape, my other hand gripped with all its strength a 
throat as warm, and apparently fleshly, as my own; 
and yet, with this living substance in my grasp, with its 
body pressed against my own, and all in the bright 
glare of a large jet of gas, I absolutely beheld nothing! 
Not even an outline — a vapor ! 

I do not, even at this hour, realize the situation in 
which I found myself. I cannot recall the astounding 
incident thoroughly. Imagination in vain tries to com- 
pass the awful paradox. 

It breathed. I felt its warm breath upon my cheek. 
It struggled fiercely. It had hands. They clutched me. 
Its skin was smooth, like my own. There it lay, 
pressed close up against me, solid as stone — and yet 
utterly invisible ! 

I wonder that I did not faint or go mad on the in- 
stant. Some wonderful instinct must have sustained 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 189 

me; for, absolutely, in place of loosening my hold on 
the terrible Enigma, I seemed to gain an additional 
strength in my moment of horror, and tightened my 
grasp with such wonderful force that I felt the crea- 
ture shivering with agony. 

Just then Hammond entered my room at the head 
of the household. As soon as he beheld my face — 
which, I suppose, must have been an awful sight to 
look at — he hastened forward, crying, "Great heaven, 
Harry ! what has happened ?" 

"Hammond ! Hammond !" I cried, "come here. Oh ! 
this is awful! I have been attacked in bed by some- 
thing or other, which I have hold of ; but I can't see it 
— I can't see it !" 

Hammond, doubtless struck by the unfeigned horror 
expressed in my countenance, made one or two steps 
forward with an anxious yet puzzled expression. A 
very audible titter burst from the remainder of my 
visitors. This suppressed laughter made me furious. 
To laugh at a human being in my position ! It was the 
worst species of cruelty. Now, I can understand why 
the appearance of a man struggling violently, as it 
would seem, with an airy nothing, and calling for as- 
sistance against a vision, should have appeared ludi- 
crous. Then, so great was my rage against the mock- 
ing crowd that had I the power I would have stricken 
them dead where they stood. 

"Hammond! Hammond!" I cried again, despair- 
ingly, "for God's sake come to me. I can hold the — 
the Thing but a short while longer. It is overpowering 
me. Help me ! Help me !" 



igo FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

"Harry," whispered Hammond, approaching me, 
"you have been smoking too much opium." 

"I swear to you, Hammond, that this is no vision," 
I answered, in the same low tone. "Don't you see how 
it shakes my whole frame with its struggles? If you 
don't believe me, convince yourself. Feel it — touch it." 

Hammond advanced and laid his hand on the spot 
I indicated. A wild cry of horror burst from him. 
He had felt it! 

In a moment he had discovered somewhere in my 
room a long piece of cord, and was the next instant 
winding it and knotting it about the body of the un- 
seen being that I clasped in my arms. 

"Harry," he said, in a hoarse, agitated voice, for, 
though he preserved his presence of mind, he was 
deeply moved, "Harry, it's all safe now. You may let 
go, old fellow, if you're tired. The Thing can't move." 

I was utterly exhausted, and I gladly loosed my 
hold. 

Hammond stood holding the ends of the cord that 
bound the Invisible, twisted round his hand, while be- 
fore him, self-supporting as it were, he beheld a rope 
laced and interlaced, and stretching tightly round a 
vacant space. I never saw a man look so thoroughly 
stricken with awe. Nevertheless his face expressed all 
the courage and determination which I knew him to 
possess. His lips, although white, were set firmly, and 
one could perceive at a glance that, although stricken 
with fear, he was not daunted. 

The confusion that ensued among the guests of the 
house who were witnesses of this extraordinary scene 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY t$i 

between Hammond and myself — who beheld the pan- 
tomime of binding this struggling Something — who 
beheld me almost sinking from physical exhaustion 
when my task of jailer was over — the confusion and 
terror that took possession of the bystanders, when 
they saw all this, was beyond description. The weaker 
ones fled from the apartment. The few who remained 
clustered near the door, and could not be induced to 
approach Hammond and his Charge. Still incredulity 
broke out through their terror. They had not the 
courage to satisfy themselves, and yet they doubted. 
It was in vain that I begged of some of the men to 
come near and convince themselves by touch of the 
existence in that room of a living being which was in- 
visible. They were incredulous, but did not dare to 
undeceive themselves. How could a solid, living, 
breathing body be invisible, they asked. My reply was 
this. I gave a sign to Hammond, and both of us — 
conquering our fearful repugnance to touch the in- 
visible creature — lifted it from the ground, manacled 
as it was, and took it to my bed. Its weight was about 
that of a boy of fourteen. 

"Now, my friends," I said, as Hammond and myself 
held the creature suspended over the bed, "I can give 
you self-evident proof that here is a solid, ponderable 
body which, nevertheless, you cannot see. Be good 
enough to watch the surface of the bed attentively." 

I was astonished at my own courage in treating this 
strange event so calmly ; but I had recovered from my 
first terror, and felt a sort of scientific pride in the 
affair which dominated every other feeling. 



192 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

The eyes of the bystanders were immediately fixed 
on my bed. At a given signal Hammond and I let the 
creature fall. There was the dull sound of a heavy 
body alighting on a soft mass. The timbers of the bed 
creaked. A deep impression marked itself distinctly 
on the pillow, and on the bed itself. The crowd who 
witnessed this gave a sort of low, universal cry, and 
rushed from the room. Hammond and I were left 
alone wkh our Mystery. 

We remained silent for some time, listening to the 
low, irregular breathing of the creature on the bed, 
and watching the rustle of the bedclothes as it impo- 
tently struggled to free itself from confinement. Then 
Hammond spoke. 

"Harry, this is awful." 

"Aye, awful." 

"But not unaccountable." 

"Not unaccountable ! What do you mean ? Such a 
thing has never occurred since the birth of the world. 
I know not what to think, Hammond. God grant that 
I am not mad, and that this is not an insane fantasy !" 

"Let us reason a little, Harry. Here is a solid body 
which we touch, but which we cannot see. The fact is 
so unusual that it strikes us with terror. Is there no 
parallel, though, for such a phenomenon ? Take a 
piece of pure glass. It is tangible and transparent. A 
certain chemical coarseness is all that prevents its being 
so entirely transparent as to be totally invisible. It is 
not theoretically impossible, mind you, to make a glass 
which shall not reflect a single ray of light — a glass so 
pure and homogeneous in its atoms that the rays from 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 193 

the sun shall pass through it as they do through the air, 
refracted but not reflected. We do not see the air, and 
yet we feel it." 

"That's all very well, Hammond, but these are inani- 
mate substances. Glass does not breathe, air does not 
breathe. This thing has a heart that palpitates — a will 
that moves it — lungs that play, and inspire and re- 
spire." 

"You forget the strange phenomena of which we 
have so often heard of late," answered the Doctor 
gravely. "At the meetings called 'spirit circles,' in- 
visible hands have been thrust into the hands of those 
persons round the table — warm, fleshly hands that 
seemed to pulsate with mortal life." 

"What ? Do you think, then, that this thing is " 

"I don't know what it is," was the solemn reply; 
"but please the gods I will, with your assistance, thor- 
oughly investigate it." 

We watched together, smoking many pipes, all night 
long, by the bedside of the unearthly thing that tossed 
and panted until it was apparently wearied out. Then 
we learned by the low, regular breathing that it slept. 

The next morning the house was all astir. The 
boarders congregated on the landing outside my room, 
and Hammond and myself were lions. We had to an- 
swer a thousand questions as to the state of our ex- 
traordinary prisoner, for as yet not one person in the 
house except ourselves could be induced to set foot in 
the apartment. 

The creature was awake. This was evidenced by 
the convulsive manner in which the bedclothes were 



194 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

moved in its efforts to escape. There was something 
truly terrible in beholding, as it were, those second- 
hand indications of the terrible writhings and agonized 
struggles for liberty which themselves were invisible. 

Hammond and myself had racked our brains during 
the long night to discover some means by which we 
might realize the shape and general appearance of the 
Enigma. As well as we could make out by passing our 
hands over the creature's form, its outlines and linea- 
ments were human. There was a mouth; a round, 
smooth head without hair; a nose, which, however, 
was little elevated above the cheeks ; and its hands and 
feet felt like those of a boy. At first we thought of 
placing the being on a smooth surface and tracing its 
outline with chalk, as shoemakers trace the outline of 
the foot. This plan was given up as being of no value. 
Such an outline would give not the slightest idea of 
its conformation. 

A happy thought struck me. We would take a cast 
of it in plaster of Paris. This would give us the solid 
figure, and satisfy all our wishes. But how to do it? 
The movements of the creature would disturb the set- 
ting of the plastic covering, and distort the mold. An- 
other thought. Why not give it chloroform? It had 
respiratory organs — that was evident by its breathing. 
Once reduced to a state of insensibility we could do 

with it what we would. Doctor X 1 was sent for ; 

and after the worthy physician had recovered from the 
first shock of amazement, he proceeded to administer 
the chloroform. In three minutes afterward we were 
enabled to remove the fetters from the creature's body, 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 

and a well-known modeler of this city was busily en- 
gaged in covering the invisible form with the moist 
clay. In five minutes more we had a mold, and before 
evening a rough facsimile of the mystery. It was 
shaped like a man — distorted, uncouth, and horrible, 
but still a man. It was small, not over four feet and 
some inches in height, and its limbs revealed a muscu- 
lar development that was unparalleled. Its face sur- 
passed in hideousness anything I had ever seen. Gus- 
tave Dore, or Callot, or Tony Johannot, never con- 
ceived anything so horrible. There is a face in one of 
the latter's illustrations to u Un Voyage ou il vous 
plaira," which somewhat approaches the countenance 
of this creature, but does not equal it. It was the 
physiognomy of what I should have fancied a ghoul 
to be. It looked as if it was capable of feeding on hu- 
man flesh. 

Having satisfied our curiosity, and bound everyone 
in the house to secrecy, it became a question what was 
to be done with our Enigma. It was impossible that 
we should keep such a horror in our house; it was 
equally impossible that such an awful being should be 
let loose upon the world. I confess that I would have 
gladly voted for the creature's destruction. But who 
would shoulder the responsibility ? Who would under- 
take the execution of this horrible semblance of a 
human being? Day after day this question was de- 
liberated gravely. The boarders all left the house. 
Mrs. Moffat was in despair, and threatened Hammond 
and myself with all sorts of legal penalties if we did 
not remove the Horror. Our answer was, "We will go 



196 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

if you like, but we decline taking this creature with us. 
Remove it yourself if you please. It appeared in your 
house. On you the responsibility rests." To this there 
was, of course, no answer. Mrs. Moffat could not ob- 
tain for love or money a person who would even ap- 
proach the Mystery. 

The most singular part of the transaction was that 
we were entirely ignorant of what the creature habitu- 
ally fed on. Everything in the way of nutriment that 
we could think of was placed before it, but was never 
touched. It was awful to stand by, day after day, and 
see the clothes toss, and hear the hard breathing, and 
know that it was starving. 

Ten, twelve days, a fortnight passed, and it still 
lived. The pulsations of the heart, however, were 
daily growing fainter, and had now nearly ceased alto- 
gether. It was evident that the creature was dying for 
want of sustenance. While this terrible life struggle 
was going on I felt miserable. I could not sleep of 
nights. Horrible as the creature was, it was pitiful to 
think of the pangs it was suffering. 

At last it died. Hammond and I found it cold and 
stiff one morning in the bed. The heart had ceased to 
beat, the lungs to inspire. We hastened to bury it in 
the garden. It was a strange funeral, the dropping of 
that viewless corpse into the damp hole. The cast of 

its form I gave to Dr. X , who keeps it in his 

museum in Tenth Street. 

As I am on the eve of a long journey from which I 
may not return, I have drawn up this narrative of an 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 197 

event the most singular that has ever come to my 
knowledge. Harry Escott. 

[Note. — It was rumored that the proprietors of a well- 
known museum in this city had made arrangements with 

Dr. X to exhibit to the public the singular cast which 

Mr. Escott deposited with him. So extraordinary a his- 
tory cannot fail to attract universal attention.] 



Fitz-James O'Brien. 

Fitz- James O'Brien was born in Ireland in 1828. 
His father, who had great hopes for his son, gave him 
a good education at Dublin University. Fitz-James, 
however, was a wild and reckless youth ; after serving 
for some time as a soldier he went to London, where, 
it is said, he spent $40,000 in two years. In 1852 he 
came to America to retrieve his fortunes. Having let- 
ters to influential people, he made a brilliant entry into 
New York society, and became exceedingly popular 
by reason of his agreeable and entertaining manner. 
Associated with a congenial literary set, he began to 
apply himself to writing, and contributed to the Even- 
ing Post 3 the Times, and the American Whig Review. 
In a short time he had become a regular contributor to 
Harper's Magazine, and for several years continued to 
supply stories and articles with a frequency which 
showed a remarkable fecundity of mind. For Har- 
per s Weekly he wrote a series of "Man About Town" 
sketches which were much talked of in social and lit- 
erary circles. He contributed dramatic articles to the 
Evening Press, and wrote light comedy skits for the 



198 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

stage. The Diamond Lens and The Wondersmith, 
two stories which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, 
attracted wide attention and proclaimed him a story 
writer of extraordinary ability. What Was It? A 
Mystery was published in Harper s for 1859. Fol- 
lowing the example of his close friend, Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich, and others of his gifted young companions, 
O'Brien enlisted as a private in the Civil War. In 
1862 he was wounded in battle, and died shortly after- 
ward. 

Fitz-James O'Brien was an erratic, boisterous, vola- 
tile man, high-minded, intellectual, and full of Irish 
vivacity and charm. Though he died too young to 
have produced much of permanent value, two or three 
of his stories are grouped with the best of American 
tales. O'Brien shows clearly the influence of Poe, yet 
he has enough originality to make the charge of imita- 
tion negligible. In The Diamond Lens he would 
have done himself no harm if he had profited by Poe's 
example in construction : the story is too long, and, 
moreover, it falls into two separate parts, each fairly 
complete in itself. The theme is boldly imaginative, 
not altogether attractive, but instinct with wonder and 
fancy, in the true romantic style. In What Was It? 
A Mystery, his best story, he did better, organizing 
his material extremely well, and investing his tale of 
the supernatural with an air of reality gained by a 
skillful use of commonplace details. 

Maupassant's Le Horla is too much like O'Brien's 
What Was It? to permit us to assume an accidental 
similarity; we should note that while O'Brien merely 



WHAT WAS IT? A MYSTERY 199 

used the first person in his story, Maupassant went 
further, and used the diary form — with good results. 
The same form, with variations, has been employed by 
Mr. Ambrose Bierce in his The Damned Thing, an 
impressive bit of work palpably imitated from O'Brien 
and Maupassant. 

bibliography 

Fitz- James O'Brien: 

Canby, H. S. : The Short-Story in English, pp. 282 et 

seq. 
Trent, W. P. : American Literature, pp. 512-514. 
Winter, William: The Diamond Lens and Other 
Stories by Fitz-James O'Brien, Introduction. 

Stories by O'Brien : 
The Diamond Lens. 
The Wondersmith. 
The Golden Ingot. 
The Dragon Fang. 
The Lost Room. 
Mother of Pearl. 
Milly Dove. 
Tommatoo. 
The Bohemian. 

Stories of the Grotesque, Mysterious, and Horrible: 

The Horla Guy de Maupassant. . . 

The Damned Thing Ambrose Bierce. 

At the End of the Passage. . .Rudyard Kipling. 
The Strange Ride of Morrow- 

bie Jukes Rudyard Kipling. 

The Murders in the Rue 

Morgue Edgar Allan Poe. 



200 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 

The Tell-tale Heart Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Black Cat Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Facts in the Case of M. 

Valdemar Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Coffin Maker Alexander Poushkin. 

The Withered Arm Thomas Hardy. 

A Terribly Strange Bed Wilkie Collins. 

The House and the Brain. . .Edward Bulwer-Lytton. 
The Upper Berth F. Marion Crawford. 



THE REAL THING* 

By Henry James, Jr. 



When the porter's wife (she used to answer the 
house-bell) announced "A gentleman — with a lady, 
sir/' I had, as I often had in those days, for the wish 
was father to the thought, an immediate vision of sit- 
ters. Sitters my visitors in this case proved to be ; but 
not in the sense I should have preferred. However, 
there was nothing at first to indicate that they might 
not have come for a portrait. The gentleman, a man 
of fifty, very high and very straight, with a mustache 
slightly grizzled and a dark gray walking-coat admir- 
ably fitted, both of which I noted professionally — I 
don't mean as a barber or yet as a tailor — would have 
struck me as a celebrity if celebrities often were strik- 
ing. It was a truth of which I had for some time been 
conscious that a figure with a good deal of frontage 
was, as one might say, almost never a public institu- 
tion. A glance at the lady helped to remind me of this 
paradoxical law: she also looked too distinguished to 
be a "personality." Moreover one would scarcely come 
across two variations together. 

*By permission of the author. Copyright by the Macmillan 
Company. 

201 



202 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

Neither of the pair spoke immediately — they only 
prolonged the preliminary gaze which suggested that 
each wished to give the other a chance. They were 
visibly shy ; they stood there letting me take them in — 
which, as I afterward perceived, was the most practical 
thing they could have done. In this way their embar- 
rassment served their cause. I had seen people pain- 
fully reluctant to mention that they desired anything 
so gross as to be represented on canvas; but the 
scruples of my new friends appeared almost insur- 
mountable. Yet the gentleman might have said, "I 
should like a portrait of my wife," and the lady might 
have said, "I should like a portrait of my husband." 
Perhaps they were not husband and wife — this nat- 
urally would make the matter more delicate. Perhaps 
they wished to be done together — in which case they 
ought to have brought a third person to break the 
news. 

"We come from Mr. Rivet," fhe lady said at last, 
with a dim smile which had the effect of a moist 
sponge passed over a "sunk" piece of painting, as well 
as of a vague allusion to vanished beauty. She was as 
tall and straight, in her degree, as her companion, and 
with ten years less to carry. She looked as sad as a 
woman could look whose face was not charged with 
expression; that is, her tinted oval mask showed fric- 
tion as an exposed surface shows it. The hand of 
time had played over her freely, but only to simplify. 
She was slim and stiff, and so well-dressed, in dark 
blue cloth, with lappets and pockets and buttons, that 
it was clear she employed the same tailor as her hus- 



THE REAL THING 203 

band. The couple had an indefinable air of prosperous 
thrift — they evidently got a good deal of luxury for 
their money. If I was to be one of their luxuries it 
would behove me to consider my terms. 

"Ah, Claude Rivet recommended me?" I inquired; 
and I added that it was very kind of him, though I 
could reflect that, as he only painted landscape, this 
was not a sacrifice. 

The lady looked very hard at the gentleman, and 
the gentleman looked around the room. Then, staring 
at the floor a moment and stroking his mustache, he 
rested his pleasant eyes on me with the remark : "He 
said you were the right one." 

"I try to be, when people want to sit." 

"Yes, we should like to," said the lady anxiously. 

"Do you mean together?" 

My visitors exchanged a glance. "If you could do 
anything with me, I suppose it would be double," the 
gentleman stammered. 

"Oh, yes, there's naturally a higher charge for two 
figures than for one." 

"We should like to make it pay," the husband con- 
fessed. 

"That's very good of you," I returned, appreciating 
so unwonted a sympathy — for I supposed he meant 
pay the artist. 

A sense of strangeness seemed to dawn on the lady. 
"We mean for the illustrations — Mr. Rivet said you 
might put one in." 

"Put one in — an illustration?" I was equally con- 
fusecj. 



204 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

"Sketch her off, you know," said the gentleman, 
coloring. 

It was only then that I understood the service 
Claude Rivet had rendered me ; he had told them that 
I worked in black and white, for magazines, for story- 
books, for sketches of contemporary life, and conse- 
quently had frequent employment for models. These 
things were true, but it was not less true ( I may con- 
fess it now — whether because the aspiration was to 
lead to everything or to nothing I leave the reader to 
guess) that I couldn't get the honors, to say nothing 
of the emoluments, of a great painter of portraits out 
of my head. My "illustrations" were my pot-boilers ; 
I looked to a different branch of art (far and away 
the most interesting it had always seemed to me) to 
perpetuate my fame. There was no shame in looking 
to it also to make my fortune ; but that fortune was by 
so much further from being made from the moment 
my visitors wished to be "done" for nothing. I was 
disappointed ; for in the pictorial sense I had immedi- 
ately seen them. I had seized their type — I had already 
settled what I would do with it. Something that 
wouldn't absolutely have pleased them, I afterward 
reflected. 

"Ah, you're — you're — a ?" I began, as soon as 

I had mastered my surprise. I couldn't bring out the 
dingy word "models"; it seemed to fit the case so 
little. 

"We haven't had much practice," said the lady. 

"We've got to do something, and we've thought 
that an artist in your line might perhaps make some- 



THE REAL THING 205 

thing of us," her husband threw off. He further men- 
tioned that they didn't know many artists and that 
they had gone first, on the off-chance (he painted views 
of course, but sometimes put in figures — perhaps I 
remembered) to Mr. Rivet, whom they had met a few 
years before at a place in Norfolk where he was 
sketching. 

"We used to sketch a little ourselves," the lady 
hinted. 

"It's very awkward, but we absolutely must do 
something," her husband went on. 

"Of course, we're not so very young," she admitted, 
with a wan smile. 

With the remark that I might as well know some- 
thing more about them, the husband had handed me a 
card extracted from a neat new pocket-book (their 
appurtenances were all of the freshest) and inscribed 
with the words "Major Monarch." Impressive as 
these words were they didn't carry my knowledge 
much further ; but my visitor presently added : "I've 
left the army, and we've had the misfortune to lose 
our money. In fact our means are dreadfully small." 

"It's an awful bore," said Mrs. Monarch. 

They evidently wished to be discreet — to take care 
not to swagger because they were gentlefolks. I per- 
ceived they would have been willing to recognize this 
as something of a drawback, at the same time that I 
guessed at an underlying sense — their consolation in 
adversity — that they had their points. They certainly 
had; but these advantages struck me as preponder- 
antly social; such for instance as would help to make 



206 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

a drawing-room look well. However, a drawing- 
room was always, or ought to be, a picture. 

In consequence of his wife's allusion to their age 
Major Monarch observed : "Naturally, it's more for 
the figure that we thought of going in. We can still 
hold ourselves up." On the instant I saw that the 
figure was indeed their strong point. His "naturally" 
didn't sound vain, but it lighted up the question. "She 
has got the best," he continued, nodding at his wife, 
with a pleasant after-dinner absence of circumlocu- 
tion. I could only reply, as if we were in fact sitting 
over our wine, that this didn't prevent his own from 
being very good; which led him in turn to rejoin: 
"We thought that if you ever have to do people like 
us, we might be something like it. She, particularly — 
for a lady in a book, you know." 

I was so amused by them that, to get more of it, I 
did my best to take their point of view ; and though it 
was an embarrassment to find myself appraising physi- 
cally, as if they were animals on hire or useful blacks, 
a pair whom I should have expected to meet only in 
one of the relations in which criticism is tacit, I looked 
at Mrs. Monarch judicially enough to be able to ex- 
claim, after a moment, with conviction: "Oh, yes, a 
lady in a book !" She was singularly like a bad illus- 
tration. 

"We'll stand up, if you like," said the Major; and 
he raised himself before me with a really grand air. 

I could take his measure at a glance — he was six 
feet two and a perfect gentleman. It would have paid 
any club in process of formation and in want of a 



THE REAL THING 207 

stamp to engage him at a salary to stand in the prin- 
cipal window. What struck me immediately was that 
in coming to me they had rather missed their voca- 
tion; they could surely have been turned to better 
account for advertising purposes. I couldn't of course 
see the thing in detail, but I could see them make some 
one's fortune — I don't mean their own. There was 
something in them for a waistcoat-maker, an hotel- 
keeper or a soap-vendor. I could imagine "We always 
use it" pinned on their bosoms with the greatest effect ; 
I had a vision of the promptitude with which they 
would launch a table d'hote. 

Mrs. Monarch sat still, not from pride, but from 
shyness, and presently her husband said to her : "Get 
up, my dear, and show how smart you are." She 
obeyed, but she had no need to get up to show it. She 
walked to the end of the studio, and then she came 
back blushing, with her fluttered eyes on her husband. 
I was reminded of an incident I had accidentally had 
a glimpse of in Paris — being with a friend there, a 
dramatist about to produce a play — when an actress 
came to him to ask to be intrusted with a part. She 
went through her paces before him, walked up and 
down as Mrs. Monarch was doing. Mrs. Monarch 
did it quite as well, but I abstained from applauding. 
It was very odd to see such people apply for such poor 
pay. She looked as if she had ten thousand a year. 
Her husband had used the word that described her: 
she was, in the London current jargon, essentially and 
typically "smart." Her figure was, in the same order 
of ideas, conspicuously and irreproachably "good." 



208 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

For a woman of her age her waist was surprisingly- 
small ; her elbow moreover had the orthodox crook. 
She held her head at the conventional angle ; but why 
did she come to me? She ought to have tried on 
jackets at a big shop. I feared my visitors were not 
only destitute, but "artistic" — which would be a great 
complication. When she sat down again I thanked 
her, observing that what a draftsman most valued in 
his model was the faculty of keeping quiet. 

"Oh, she can keep quiet," said Major Monarch. 
Then he added , jocosely : "I've always kept her 
quiet." 

"I'm not a nasty fidget, am I ?" Mrs. Monarch ap- 
pealed to her husband. 

He addressed his answer to me. "Perhaps it isn't 
out of place to mention — because we ought to be quite 
business-like, oughtn't we? — that when I married her 
she was known as the Beautiful Statue." 

"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Monarch ruefully. 

"Of course I should want a certain amount of ex- 
pression," I rejoined. 

"Of course!'' they both exclaimed. 

"And then I suppose you know that you'll get aw- 
fully tired." 

"Oh, we never get tired !" they eagerly cried. 

"Have you had any kind of practice?" 

They hesitated — they looked at each other. "We've 
been photographed, immensely" said Mrs. Monarch. 

"She means the fellows have asked us," added the 
Major. 

"I see — because you're so good-looking." 



THE REAL THING 209 

"I don't know what they thought, but they were 
always after us." 

"We always got our photographs for nothing," 
smiled Mrs. Monarch. 

"We might have brought some, my dear," her hus- 
band remarked. 

"I'm not sure we have any left. We've given quan- 
tities away," she explained to me. 

"With our autographs and that sort of thing," said 
the Major. 

"Are they to be got in the shops?" I inquired, as a 
harmless pleasantry. 

"Oh, yes ; hers — they used to be." 

"Not now," said Mrs. Monarch, with her eyes on 
the floor. 



II. 



I could fancy the "sort of thing" they put on the 
presentation copies of their photographs, and I was 
sure they wrote a beautiful hand. It was odd how 
quickly I was sure of everything that concerned them. 
If they were now so poor as to have to earn shillings 
and pence, they never had had much of a margin. 
Their good looks had been their capital, and they had 
good-humoredly made the most of the career that this 
resource marked out for them. It was in their faces, 
the blankness, the deep intellectual repose of the 
twenty years of country-house visiting which had 
given them pleasant intonations. I could see the sunny 
drawing-rooms, sprinkled with periodicals she didn't 



210 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

read, in which Mrs. Monarch had continuously sat; 
I could see the wet shrubberies in which she had 
walked, equipped to admiration for either exercise. I 
could see the rich covers the Major had helped to shoot 
and the wonderful garments in which, late at night, 
he repaired to the smoking-room to talk about them. 
I could imagine their leggings and waterproofs, their 
knowing tweeds and rugs, their rolls of sticks and 
cases of tackle and neat umbrellas ; and I could evoke 
the exact appearance of their servants and the compact 
variety of their luggage on the platforms of country 
stations. 

They gave small tips, but they were liked; they 
didn't do anything themselves, but they were wel- 
come. They looked so well everywhere ; they gratified 
the general relish for stature, complexion and "form." 
They knew it without fatuity or vulgarity, and they 
respected themselves in consequence. They were not 
superficial; they were thorough and kept themselves 
up — it had been their line. People with such a taste 
for activity had to have some line. I could feel how, 
even in a dull house, they could have been counted 
upon for cheerfulness. At present something had hap- 
pened — it didn't matter what, their little income had 
grown less, it had grown least — and they had to do 
something for pocket money. Their friends liked 
them, but didn't like to support them. There was 
something about them that represented credit — their 
clothes, their manners, their type; but if credit is a 
large empty pocket in which an occasional chink rever- 
berates, the chink at least must be audible. What they 



THE REAL THING 211 

wanted of me was to help to make it so. Fortunately 
they had no children — X soon divined that. They 
would also perhaps wish our relations to be kept 
secret: this was why it was "for the figure" — the re- 
production of the face would betray them. 

I liked them — they were so simple; and I had no 
objection to them if they would suit. But, somehow, 
with all their perfections I didn't easily believe in 
them. After all, they were amateurs, and the ruling 
passion of my life was the detestation of the amateur. 
Combined with this was another perversity — an innate 
preference for the represented subject over the real 
one : the defect of the real one was so apt to be a lack 
of representation. I liked things that appeared; then 
one was sure. Whether they were or not was a subor- 
dinate and almost always a profitless question. There 
were other considerations, the first of which was that 
I already had two or three people in use, notably a 
young person with big feet, in alpaca, from Kilburn, 
who for a couple of years had come to me regularly 
for my illustrations and with whom I was still — per- 
haps ignobly — satisfied. I frankly explained to my 
visitors how the case stood ; but they had taken more 
precautions than I supposed. They had reasoned out 
their opportunity, for Claude Rivet had told them of 
the projected edition de luxe of one of the writers of 
our day — the rarest of the novelists — who, long neg- 
lected by the multitudinous vulgar and dearly prized 
by the attentive (need I mention Philip Vincent?) had 
had the happy fortune of seeing, late in life, the dawn 
and then the full light of a higher criticism — an esti- 



212 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

mate in which, on the part of the public, there was 
something really of expiation. The edition in ques- 
tion, planned by a publisher of taste, was practically 
an act of high reparation; the wood-cuts with which 
it was to be enriched were the homage of English art 
to one of the most independent representatives of Eng- 
lish letters. Major and Mrs. Monarch confessed to 
me that they had hoped I might be able to work them 
into my share of the enterprise. They knew I was to 
do the first of the books, "Rutland Ramsay," but I 
had to make clear to them that my participation in 
the rest of the affair — this first book was to be a test — ■ 
was to depend on the satisfaction I should give. If 
this should be limited my employers would drop me 
without a scruple. It was therefore a crisis for me, 
and naturally I was making special preparations, look- 
ing about for new people, if they should be necessary, 
and securing the best types. I admitted, however, that 
I should like to settle down to two or three good 
models who would do for everything. 

"Should we have often to — a — put on special 
clothes?" Mrs. Monarch timidly demanded. 

"Dear, yes — that's half the business." 

"And should we be expected to supply our own 
costumes ?" 

"Oh, no ; I've got a lot of things. A painter's mod- 
els put on — or put off — anything he likes." 

"And do you mean — a — the same ?" 

"The same." 

Mrs. Monarch looked at her husband again. 

"Oh, she was just wondering," he explained, "if 



THE REAL THING 213 

the costumes are in general use." I had to confess 
that they were, and I mentioned further that some of 
them (I had a lot of genuine, greasy last-century 
things) had served their time, a hundred years ago, 
on living, world-stained men and women. "We'll put 
on anything that fits," said the Major. 

"Oh, I arrange that — they fit in the pictures." 

"I'm afraid I should do better for the modern books. 
I would come as you like," said Mrs. Monarch. 

"She has got a lot of clothes at home: they might 
do for contemporary life," her husband continued. 

"Oh, I can fancy scenes in which you'd be quite 
natural." And indeed I could see the slipshod rear- 
rangements of stale properties — the stories I tried to 
produce pictures for without the exasperation of read- 
ing them — whose sandy tracts the good lady might 
help to people. But I had to return to the fact that 
for this sort of work — the daily mechanical grind — I 
was already equipped; the people I was working with 
were fully adequate. 

"We only thought we might be more like some 
characters," said Mrs. Monarch mildly, getting up. 

Her husband also rose ; he stood looking at me with 
a dim wist fulness that was touching in so fine a man. 
"Wouldn't it be rather a pull sometimes to have — a — 

to have ?" He hung fire; he wanted me to help 

him by phrasing what he meant. But I couldn't — I 
didn't know. So he brought it out awkwardly : "The 
real thing; a gentleman, you know, or a lady." I was 
quite ready to give a general assent — I admitted that 
there was a great deal in that. This encouraged Major 



214 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

Monarch to say, following up his appeal with an un- 
acted gulp : "It's awfully hard — we've tried every- 
thing.'' The gulp was communicative; it proved too 
much for his wife. Before I knew it Mrs. Monarch 
had dropped again upon a divan and burst into tears. 
Her husband sat down beside her, holding one of her 
hands ; whereupon she quickly dried her eyes with the 
other, while I felt embarrassed as she looked up at 
me. "There isn't a confounded job I haven't applied 
for — waited for — prayed for. You can fancy we'd be 
pretty bad first. Secretaryships and that sort of thing? 
You might as well ask for a peerage. I'd be anything 
— I'm strong; a messenger or a coalheaver. I'd put on 
a gold-laced cap and open carriage doors in front of 
the haberdasher's; I'd hang about a station, to carry 
portmanteaus ; I'd be a postman. But they won't look 
at you; there are thousands, as good as yourself, al- 
ready on the ground. Gentlemen, poor beggars, who 
have drunk their wine, who have kept their hunters !" 
I was as reassuring as I knew how to be, and my 
visitors were presently on their feet again while, for 
the experiment, we agreed on an hour. We were dis- 
cussing it when the door opened and Miss Churm came 
in with a wet umbrella. Miss Churm had to take the 
omnibus to Maida Vale and then walk half-a-mile. She 
looked a trifle blowsy and slightly splashed. I scarcely 
ever saw her come in without thinking afresh how odd 
it was that, being so little in herself, she should yet 
be so much in others. She was a meager little Miss 
Churm, but she was an ample heroine of romance. 
She was only a freckled cockney, but she could repre- 



THE REAL THING 215 

sent everything, from a fine lady to a shepherdess ; she 
had the faculty, as she might have had a fine voice or 
long hair. She couldn't spell and she loved beer, but 
she had two or three "points," and practice, and a 
knack, and mother-wit, and a kind of whimsical sen- 
sibility, and a love of the theater, and seven sisters, 
and not an ounce of respect, especially for the h. The 
first thing my visitors saw was that her umbrella was 
wet, and in their spotless perfection they visibly 
winced at it. The rain had come on since their ar- 
rival. 

"I'm all in a soak; there was a mess of people in the 
'bus. I wish you lived near a stytion," said Miss 
Churm. I requested her to get ready as quickly as 
possible, and she passed into the room in which she 
always changed her dress. But before going out she 
asked me what she was to get into this time. 

"It's the Russian princess, don't you know?" I an- 
swered ; "the one with the 'golden eyes/ in black vel- 
vet, for the long thing in the Cheapside." 

"Golden eyes? I say!" cried Miss Churm, while 
my companions watched her with intensity as she 
withdrew. She always arranged herself, when she 
was late, before I could turn round; and I kept my 
visitors a little, on purpose, so that they might get 
an idea, from seeing her, what would be expected of 
themselves. I mentioned that she was quite my notion 
of an excellent model — she was really very clever. 

"Do you think she looks like a Russian princess ?" 
Major Monarch asked, with lurking alarm, 

"When I make her, yes." 



216 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

"Oh, if you have to make her !" he reasoned 

acutely. 

"That's the most you can ask. There are so many 
that are not makable." 

"Well, now, here's a lady" — and with a persuasive 
smile he passed his arm into his wife's — "who's al- 
ready made !" 

"Oh, I'm not a Russian princess," Mrs. Monarch 
protested, a little coldly. I could see that she had 
known some and didn't like them. There, immedi- 
ately, was a complication of a kind that I never had 
to fear with Miss Churm. 

This young lady came back in black velvet — the 
gown was rather dusty and very low on her lean 
shoulders — and with a Japanese fan in her red hands. 
I reminded her that in the scene I was doing she had 
to look over some one's head. "I forget whose it is; 
but it doesn't matter. Just look over a head." 

"I'd rather look over a stove," said Miss Churm; 
and she took her station near the fire. She fell into 
position, settled herself into a tall attitude, gave a 
certain backward inclination to her head and a cer- 
tain forward droop to her fan, and looked, at least 
to my prejudiced sense, distinguished and charming, 
foreign and dangerous. We left her looking so, while 
I went downstairs with Major and Mrs. Monarch. 

"I think I could come about as near it as that," said 
Mrs. Monarch. 

"Oh, you think she's shabby, but you must allow 
for the alchemy of art." 

However, they went off with an evident increase of 



THE REAL THING 217 

comfort, founded on their demonstrable advantage in 
being the real thing. I could fancy them shuddering 
over Miss Churm. She was very droll about them 
when I went back, for I told her what they wanted. 

"Well, if she can sit I'll tyke to bookkeeping," said 
my model. 

"She's very ladylike," I replied, as an innocent 
form of aggravation. 

"So much the worse for you. That means she can't 
turn round." 

"She'll do for the fashionable novels." 

"Oh, yes, she'll do for them!" my model humor- 
ously declared. "Ain't they bad enough without her?" 
I had often sociably denounced them to Miss Churm. 



III. 



It was for the elucidation of a mystery in one of 
these works that I first tried Mrs. Monarch. Her 
husband came with her, to be useful if necessary — 
it was sufficiently clear that as a general thing he 
would prefer to come with her. At first I wondered 
if this were for "propriety's" sake — if he were going 
to be jealous and meddling. The idea was too tire- 
some, and if it had been confirmed it would speedily 
have brought our acquaintance to a close. But I soon 
saw there was nothing in it and that if he accompanied 
Mrs. Monarch it was (in addition to the chance of 
being wanted) simply because he had nothing else to 
do. When she was away from him his occupation 



218 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

was gone — she never had been away from him. I 
judged, rightly, that in their awkward situation their 
close union was their main comfort and that this 
union had no w r eak spot. It was a real marriage, an 
encouragement to the hesitating, a nut for pessimists 
to crack. Their address was humble (I remember 
afterward thinking it had been the only thing about 
them that was really professional), and I could fancy 
the lamentable lodgings in which the Major would 
have been left alone. He could bear them with his 
wife — he couldn't bear them without her. 

He had too much tact to try and make himself 
agreeable when he couldn't ber useful; so he simply 
sat and waited, when I was too absorbed in my work 
to talk. But I liked to make him talk — it made my 
work, when it didn't interrupt it, less sordid, less 
special. To listen to him was to combine the excite- 
ment of going out with the economy of staying at 
home. There was only one hindrance : that I seemed 
not to know any of the people he and his wife had 
known. I think he wondered extremely, during the 
term of our intercourse, whom the deuce I did know. 
He hadn't a stray sixpence of an idea to fumble for; 
so we didn't spin it very fine — we confined ourselves 
to questions of leather and even of liquor (saddlers 
and breeches-makers and how to get good claret 
cheap), and matters like "good trains" and the habits 
of small game. His lore on these last subjects was 
astonishing, he managed to interweave the station- 
master with the ornithologist. When he couldn't talk 
about greater things he could talk cheerfully about 



THE REAL THING 219 

smaller, and since I couldn't accompany him into 
reminiscences of the fashionable world he could lower 
the conversation without a visible effort to my level. 

So earnest a desire to please was touching in a 
man who could so easily have knocked one down. 
He looked after the fire and had an opinion on the 
draft of the stove, without my asking him, and I 
could see that he thought many of my arrangements 
not half clever enough. I remember telling him that 
if I were only rich I would offer him a salary to come 
and teach me how to live. Sometimes he gave a 
random sigh, of which the essence was : "Give me 
even such a bare old barrack as this, and I'd do some- 
thing with it !" When I wanted to use him he came 
alone; which was an illustration of the superior cour- 
age of women. His wife could bear her solitary 
second floor, and she was in general more discreet; 
showing by various small reserves that she was alive 
to the propriety of keeping our relations ' markedly 
professional — not letting them slide into sociability. 
She wished it to remain clear that she and the Major 
were employed, not cultivated, and if she approved of 
me as a superior, who could be kept in his place, she 
never thought me quite good enough for an equal. 

She sat with great intensity, giving the whole of 
her mind to it, and was capable of remaining for an 
hour almost as motionless as if she were before a 
photographer's lens. I could see she had been photo- 
graphed often, but somehow the very habit that made 
her good for that purpose unfitted her for mine. At 
first I was extremely pleased with her ladylike air, 



220 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

and it was a satisfaction, on coming to follow her 
lines, to see how good they were and how far they 
could lead the penciL But after a few times I began 
to find her too insurmountably stiff ; do what I would 
with it my drawing looked like a photograph or a 
copy of a photograph. Her figure had no variety of 
expression — she herself had no sense of variety. You 
may say that this was my business, was only a question 
of placing her. I placed her in every conceivable posi- 
tion, but she managed to obliterate their differences. 
She was always a lady certainly, and into the bargain 
was always the same lady. She was the real thing, 
but always the same thing. There were moments 
when I was oppressed by the serenity of her confidence 
that she was the real thing. All her dealings with me 
and all her husband's were an implication that this 
was lucky for me. Meanwhile I found myself trying 
to invent types that approached her own, instead of 
making her own transform itself — in the clever way 
that was not impossible, for instance, to poor Miss 
Churm. Arrange as I would and take the precautions 
I would, she always, in my pictures, came out too tall 
— landing me in the dilemma of having represented a 
fascinating woman as seven feet high, which, out of 
respect perhaps to my own very much scantier inches, 
was far from my idea of such a personage. 

The case was worse with the Major — nothing I 
could do would keep him down, so that he became 
useful only for the representation of brawny giants. 
I adored variety and range, I cherished human acci- 
dents, the illustrative note; I wanted to characterize 



THE REAL THING 221 

closely, and the thing in the world I most hated was 
the danger of being ridden by a type. I had quarreled 
with some of my friends about it — I had parted com- 
pany with them for maintaining that one had to be, 
and that if the type was beautiful (witness Raphael 
and Leonardo) the servitude was only a gain. I was 
neither Leonardo nor Raphael ; I might only be a pre- 
sumptuous young modern searcher, but I held that 
everything was to be sacrified sooner than character. 
When they averred that the haunting type in question 
could easily be character, I retorted, perhaps super- 
ficially: "Whose?" It couldn't be everybody's — it 
might end in being nobody's. 

After I had drawn Mrs. Monarch a dozen times I 
perceived more clearly than before that the value of 
such a model as Miss Churm resided precisely in the 
fact that she had no positive stamp, combined of 
course with the other fact that what she did have was 
a curious and inexplicable talent for imitation. Her 
usual appearance was like a curtain which she could 
draw up at request for a capital performance. This 
performance was simply suggestive ; but it was a word 
to the wise — it was vivid and pretty. Sometimes, 
even, I thought it, though she was plain herself, too 
insipidly pretty; I made it a reproach to her that the 
figures drawn from her were monotonously {bete- 
merit, as we used to say) graceful. Nothing made her 
more angry : it was so much her pride to feel that she 
could sit for characters that had nothing in common 
with each other. She would accuse me at such mo- 
ments of taking away her "reputytion." 



222 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

It suffered a certain shrinkage, this queer quantity, 
from the repeated visits of my new friends. Miss 
Churm was greatly in demand, never in want of em- 
ployment, so I had no scruple in putting her off oc- 
casionally, to try them more at my ease. It was 
certainly amusing at first to do the real thing — it 
was amusing to do Major Monarch's trousers. They 
were the real thing, even if he did come out colossal. 
It was amusing to do his wife's back hair (it was so 
mathematically neat), and the particular "smart" ten- 
sion of her tight stays. She lent herself especially to 
positions in which the face was somewhat averted or 
blurred; she abounded in ladylike back views and 
profils pcrdits. When she stood erect she took nat- 
urally one of the attitudes in which court-painters 
represent queens and princesses ; so that I found myself 
wondering whether, to draw out this accomplishment, 
I couldn't get the editor of the Cheapside to publish 
a really royal romance, "A Tale of Buckingham Pal- 
ace." Sometimes, however, the real thing and the 
make-believe came into contact ; by which I mean that 
Miss Churm, keeping an appointment or coming to 
make one on days when I had much work in hand, 
encountered her invidious rivals. The encounter was 
not on their part, for they noticed her no more than 
if she had been the housemaid; not from intentional 
loftiness, but simply because, as yet, professionally, 
they didn't know how to fraternize, as I could guess 
that they would have liked — or at least that the Major 
would. They couldn't talk about the omnibus — they 
always walked ; and they didn't know what else to try 



THE REAL THING 223 

— she wasn't interested in good trains or cheap claret. 
Besides, they must have felt — in the air — that she was 
amused at them, secretly derisive of their ever know- 
ing how. She was not a person to conceal her skepti- 
cism if she had had a chance to show it. On the other 
hand, Mrs. Monarch didn't think her tidy; for why 
else did she take pains to say to me (it was going out 
of the way, for Mrs. Monarch) that she didn't like 
dirty women ? 

One day when my young lady happened to be pres- 
ent with my other sitters (she even dropped in, when 
it was convenient, for a chat) I asked her to be so 
good as to lend a hand in getting tea — a service with 
which she was familiar and which was one of a class 
that, living as I did in a small way, with slender do- 
mestic resources, I often appealed to my models to 
render. They liked to lay hands on my property, to 
break the sitting, and sometimes the china — I made 
them feel Bohemian. The next time I saw Miss 
Churm after this incident she surprised me greatly 
by making a scene about it — she accused me of having 
wished to humiliate her. She had not resented the 
outrage at the time, but had seemed obliging and 
amused, enjoying the comedy of asking Mrs. Mon- 
arch, who sat vague and silent, whether she would 
have cream and sugar, and putting an exaggerated 
simper into the question. She had tried intonations 
— as if she too wished to pass for the real thing; till 
I was afraid my other visitors would take offense. 

Ch, they were determined not to do this; and their 
touching patience was the measure of their great need. 



224 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

They would sit by the hour, uncomplaining, till I was 
ready to use them; they would come back on the 
chance of being wanted and would walk away cheer- 
fully if they were not. I used to go to the door with 
them to see in what magnificent order they retreated. 
I tried to find other employment for them — I intro- 
duced them to several artists. But they didn't "take," 
for reasons I could appreciate, and I became conscious, 
rather anxiously, that after such disappointments they 
fell back upon me with a heavier weight. They did 
me the honor to think that it was I who was most 
their form. They were not picturesque enough for the 
painters, and in those days there were not so many 
serious workers in black and white. Besides, they had 
an eye to the great job I had mentioned to them — they 
had secretly set their hearts on supplying the right 
essence for my pictorial vindication of our fine nov- 
elist. They knew that for this undertaking I should 
want no costume effects, none of the frippery of past 
ages — that it was a case in which everything would be 
contemporary and satirical and, presumably, genteel. 
If I could work them into it their future would be 
assured, for the labor would of course be long and the 
occupation steady. 

One day Mrs. Monarch came without her husband 
— she explained his absence by his having had to go 
to the city. While she sat there in her usual anxious 
stiffness there came, at the door, a knock which I 
immediately recognized as the subdued appeal of a 
model out of work. It was followed by the entrance 
of a young man whom I easily perceived to be a 



THE REAL THING 225 

foreigner and who proved in fact an Italian ac- 
quainted with no English word but my name, which 
he uttered in a way that made it seem to include all 
others. I had not then visited his country, nor was I 
proficient in his tongue; but as he was not so meanly 
constituted — what Italian is? — as to depend only on 
that member for expression he conveyed to me, in 
familiar but graceful mimicry, that he was in search 
of exactly the employment in which the lady before 
me was engaged. I was not struck with him at first, 
and while I continued to draw I emitted rough sounds 
of discouragement and dismissal. He stood his 
ground, however, not importunately, but with a dumb, 
dog-like fidelity in his eyes which amounted to innocent 
impudence — the manner of a devoted servant (he 
might have been in the house for years) unjustly sus- 
pected. Suddenly I saw that this very attitude and 
expression made a picture, whereupon I told him to sit 
down and wait till I should be free. There was an- 
other picture in the way he obeyed me, and I observed 
as I worked that there were others still in the way he 
looked wonderingly, with his head thrown back, about 
the high studio. He might have been crossing himself 
in St. Peter's. Before I finished I said to myself: 
"The fellow's a bankrupt orange-monger, but he's a 
treasure." 

When Mrs. Monarch withdrew he passed across 
the room like a flash to open the door for her, stand- 
ing there with the rapt, pure gaze of the young Dante 
spellbound by the young Beatrice. As I never in- 
sisted, in such situations, on the blankness of the 



226 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

British domestic, I reflected that he had the making of 
a servant (and I needed one, but couldn't pay him to 
be only that) as well as of a model; in short, I made 
up my mind to adopt my bright adventurer if he would 
agree to officiate in the double capacity. He jumped 
at my offer, and in the event my rashness (for I had 
known nothing about him) was not brought home to 
me. He proved a sympathetic though a desultory min- 
istrant, and had in a wonderful degree the sentiment 
de la pose. It was uncultivated, instinctive ; a part of 
the happy instinct which had guided him to my door 
and helped him to spell out my name on the card nailed 
to it. He had had no other introduction to me than a 
guess, from the shape of my high north window, seen 
outside, that my place was a studio and that as a studio 
it would contain an artist. He had wandered to Eng- 
land in search of fortune, like other itinerants, and 
had embarked, with a partner and a small green hand- 
cart, on the sale of penny ices. The ices had melted 
away and the partner had dissolved in their train. 
My young man wore tight yellow trousers with reddish 
stripes and his name was Oronte. He was sallow but 
fair, and when I put him into some old clothes of my 
own he looked like an Englishman. He was as good 
as Miss Churm, who could look, when required, like 
an Italian. 



IV. 



I thought Mrs. Monarch's face slightly convulsed 
when, on her coming back with her husband, she 



THE REAL THING 227 

found Oronte installed. It was strange to have to 
recognize in a scrap of a lazzarone a competitor to 
her magnificent Major. It was she who scented dan- 
ger first, for the Major was anecdotically unconscious. 
But Oronte gave us tea, with a hundred eager con- 
fusions (he had never seen such a queer process), and 
I think she thought better of me for having at last an 
"establishment." They saw a couple of drawings that 
I had made of the establishment, and Mrs. Monarch 
hinted that it never would have struck her that he had 
sat for them. "Now the drawings you make from us, 
they look exactly like us," she reminded me, smiling in 
triumph; and I recognized that this was indeed just 
their defect. When I drew the Monarchs I couldn't, 
somehow, get away from them — get into the character 
I wanted to represent; and I had not the least desire 
my model should be discoverable in my picture. Miss 
Churm never was, and Mrs. Monarch thought I hid 
her, very properly, because she was vulgar; whereas if 
she was lost it was only as the dead who go to heaven 
are lost — in the gain of an angel the more. 

By this time I had got a certain start with "Rutland 
Ramsay," the first novel in the great projected series; 
that is, I had produced a dozen drawings, several with 
the help of the Major and his wife, and I had sent 
them in for approval. My understanding with the 
publishers, as I have already hinted, had been that I 
was to be left to do my work, in this particular case, 
as I liked, with the whole book committed to me ; but 
my connection with the rest of the series was only 
contingent. There were moments when, frankly, it 



228 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

was a comfort to have the real thing under one's hand ; 
for there were characters in "Rutland Ramsay" that 
were very much like it. There were people presum- 
ably as straight as the Major and women of as good 
a fashion as Mrs. Monarch. There was a great deal of 
country-house life — treated, it is true, in a fine, fanci- 
ful, ironical, generalized way — and there was a con- 
siderable implication of knickerbockers and kilts. 
There were certain things I had to settle at the outset ; 
such things, for instance, as the exact appearance of 
the hero, the particular bloom of the heroine. The 
author of course gave me a lead, but there was a mar- 
gin for interpretation. I took the Monarchs into my 
confidence, I told them frankly what I was about, I 
mentioned my embarrassments and alternatives. "Oh, 
take him!" Mrs. Monarch murmured sweetly, looking 
at her husband ; and "What could you want better than 
my wife?" the Major inquired, with the comfortable 
candor that now prevailed between us. 

I was not obliged to answer these remarks — I was 
only obliged to place my sitters. I was not easy in 
mind, and I postponed, a little timidly perhaps, the 
solution of the question. The book was a large can- 
vas, the other figures were numerous, and I worked 
off at first some of the episodes in which the hero 
and the heroine were not concerned. When once I 
had set them up I should have to stick to them — I 
couldn't make my young man seven feet high in one 
place and five feet nine in another. I inclined on the 
whole to the latter measurement, though the Major 
more than once reminded me that he looked about as 



THE REAL THING 229 

young as anyone. It was indeed quite possible to 
arrange him, for the figure, so that it would have 
been difficult to detect his age. After the spontaneous 
Oronte had been with me a month, and after I had 
given him to understand several different times that 
his native exuberance would presently constitute an 
insurmountable barrier to our further intercourse, I 
waked to a sense of his heroic capacity. He was only 
five feet seven, but the remaining inches were latent. 
I tried him almost secretly at first, for I was really 
rather afraid of the judgment my other models would 
pass on such a choice. If they regarded Miss Churm 
as little better than a snare, what would they think of 
the representation by a person so little the real thing as 
an Italian street vendor of a protagonist formed by a 
public school? 

If I went a little in fear of them it was not because 
they bullied me, because they had got an oppressive 
foothold, but because in their really pathetic decorum 
and mysteriously permanent newness they counted on 
me so intensely. I was therefore very glad when 
Jack Hawley came home : he was always of such good 
counsel. He painted badly himself, but there was no 
one like him for putting his finger on the place. He 
had been absent from England for a year ; he had been 
somewhere — I don't remember where — to get a fresh 
eye. I was in a good deal of dread of any such organ, 
but we were old friends ; he had been away for months 
and a sense of emptiness was creeping into my life. I 
hadn't dodged a missile for a year. 

He came back with a fresh eye, but with the same 



230 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

old black velvet blouse, and the first evening he spent 
in my studio we smoked cigarettes till the small hours. 
He had done no work himself, he had only got the eye ; 
so the field was clear for the production of my little 
things. He wanted to see what I had done for the 
Cheapside, but he was disappointed in the exhibition. 
That at least seemed the meaning of two or three com- 
prehensive groans which, as he lounged on my big 
divan, on a folded leg, looking at my latest drawings, 
issued from his lips with the smoke of the cigarette. 

"What's the matter with you?" I asked. 

"What's the matter with you?" 

"Nothing save that I'm mystified." 

"You are indeed. You're quite off the hinge. 
What's the meaning of this new fad?" And he tossed 
me, with visible irreverence, a drawing in which I 
happened to have depicted both my majestic models. 
I asked if he didn't think it good, and he replied that 
it struck him as execrable, given the sort of thing I 
had always represented myself to him as wishing to 
arrive at; but I let that pass, I was so anxious to see 
exactly what he meant. The two figures in the picture 
looked colossal, but I supposed this was not what he 
meant, inasmuch as, for aught he knew to the con- 
trary, I might have been trying for that. I maintained 
that I was working exactly in the same way as when 
he last had done me the honor to commend me. "Well, 
there's a big hole somewhere," he answered; "wait a 
bit and I'll discover it." I depended upon him to do 
so : where else was the fresh eye ? But he produced at 
last nothing more luminous than "I don't know — I 



THE REAL THING 231 

don't like your types." This was lame, for a critic who 
had never consented to discuss with me anything but 
the question of execution, the direction of strokes and 
the mystery of values. 

"In the drawings you've been looking at I think 
my types are very handsome." 

"Oh, they won't do !" 

"I've had a couple of new models." 

"I see you have. They won't do." 

"Are you very sure of that?" 

"Absolutely — they're stupid." 

"You mean / am — for I ought to get round that." 

"You cant — with such people. Who are they?" 

I told him, as far as was necessary, and he declared, 
heartlessly: "Ce sont des gens qu'il fant mettre a la 
porte." 

"You've never seen them; they're awfully good," 
I compassionately objected. 

"Not seen them? Why, all this recent work of 
yours drops to pieces with them. It's all I want to see 
of them." 

"No one else has said anything against it — the 
Cheapside people are pleased." 

"Everyone else is an ass, and the Cheapside people 
the biggest asses of all. Come, don't pretend, at this 
time of day, to have pretty illusions about the public, 
especially about publishers and editors. It's not for 
such animals you work — it's for those who know, 
color che sanno; so keep straight for me if 'you can't 
keep straight for yourself. There's a certain sort of 
thing you tried for from the first — and a very good 



22,2 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

thing it is. But this twaddle isn't in it." When I 
talked with Hawley later about "Rutland Ramsay" 
and its possible successors he declared that I must get 
back into my boat again or I would go to the bottom. 
His voice in short was the voice of warning. 

I noted the warning, but I didn't turn my friends 
out of doors. They bored me a good deal; but the 
very fact that they Ipored me admonished me not to 
sacrifice them — if there was anything to be done with 
them — simply to irritation. As I look back at this 
phase they seem to me to have pervaded my life not 
a little. I have a vision of them as most of the time 
in my studio, seated, against the wall, on an old velvet 
bench to be out of the way, and looking like a pair of 
patient courtiers in a royal ante-chamber. I am con- 
vinced that during the coldest weeks of the winter 
they held their ground because it saved them fire. 
Their newness was losing its gloss, and it was impos- 
sible not to feel that they were objects of charity. 
Whenever Miss Churm arrived they went away, and 
after I was fairly launched in "Rutland Ramsay" 
Miss Churm arrived pretty often. They managed to 
express to me tacitly that they supposed I wanted her 
for the low life of the book, and I let them suppose it, 
since they had attempted to study the work — it was 
lying about the studio — without discovering that it 
dealt only with the highest circles. They had dipped 
into the most brilliant of our novelists without de- 
ciphering many passages. I still took an hour from 
them, now and again, in spite of Jack Hawley's warn- 
ing: it would be time enough to dismiss them, if dis- 



THE REAL THING 233 

missal should be necessary, when the rigor of the 
season was over. Hawley had made their acquaint- 
ance — he had met them at my fireside — and thought 
them a ridiculous pair. Learning that he was a painter 
they tried to approach him, to show him, too, that they 
were the real thing ; but he looked at them, across the 
big room, as if they were miles away: they were a 
compendium of everything that he most objected to in 
the social system of his country. Such people as that, 
all convention and patent-leather, with ejaculations 
that stopped conversations, had no business in a 
studio. A studio was a place to learn to see, and how 
could you see through a pair of feather beds ? 

The main inconvenience I suffered at their hands 
was that, at first, I was shy of letting them discover 
how my artful little servant had begun to sit to me for 
"Rutland Ramsay." They knew that I had been odd 
enough (they were prepared by this time to allow 
oddity to artists) to pick a foreign vagabond out of 
the streets, when I might have had a person with 
whiskers and credentials ; but it was some time before 
they learned how high I rated his accomplishments. 
They found him in an attitude more than once, but 
they never doubted I was doing him as an organ- 
grinder. There were several things they never 
guessed, and one of them was that for a striking scene 
in the novel, in which a footman briefly figured, it 
occurred to me to make use of Major Monarch as the 
menial. I kept putting this off, I didn't like to ask 
him to don the livery — besides the difficulty of finding 
a livery to fit him. At last, one day late in the winter, 



234 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

when I was - at work on the despised Oronte (he caught 
one's idea in an instant) and was in the glow of feeling 
that I was going very straight, they came in, the Major 
and his wife, with their society laugh about nothing 
(there was less and less to laugh at), like country- 
callers — they always reminded me of that — who have 
walked across the park after church and are presently 
persuaded to stay to luncheon. Luncheon was over, 
but they could stay to tea — I knew they wanted it. 
The fit was on me, however, and I couldn't let my 
ardor cool and my work wait, with the fading day- 
light, while my model prepared it. So I asked Mrs. 
Monarch if she would mind laying it out — a request 
which, for an instant, brought all the blood to her face. 
Her eyes were on her husband's for a second, and 
some mute telegraphy passed between them. Their 
folly was over the next instant; his cheerful shrewd- 
ness put an end to it. So far from pitying their 
wounded pride, I must add, I was moved to give it as 
complete a lesson as I could. They bustled about to- 
gether and got out the cups and saucers and made the 
kettle boil. I know they felt as if they were waiting 
on my servant, and when the tea was prepared I said : 
"He'll have a cup, please — he's tired." Mrs. Monarch 
brought him one where he stood, and he took it from 
her as if he had been a gentleman at a party, squeezing 
a crush hat with an elbow. 

Then it came over me that she had made a great 
effort for me — made it with a kind of nobleness — and 
that I owed her a compensation. Each time I saw her 
after this I wondered what the compensation could be. 



THE REAL THING 235 

I couldn't go on doing the wrong thing to oblige them. 
Oh, it was the wrong thing, the stamp of the work for 
which they sat — Hawley was not the only person to 
say it now. I sent in a large number of the drawings 
I had made for "Rutland Ramsay," and I received a 
warning that was more to the point than Hawley's. 
The artistic adviser of the house for which I was 
working was of opinion that many of my illustrations 
were not what had been looked for. Most of these 
illustrations were the subjects in which the Monarchs 
had figured. Without going into the question of what 
had been looked for, I saw at this rate I shouldn't get 
the other books to do. I hurled myself in despair upon 
Miss Churm, I put her through all her paces. I not 
only adopted Oronte publicly as my hero, but one 
morning when the Major looked in to see if I didn't 
require him to finish a figure for the Cheapside, for 
which he had begun to sit the week before, I told him 
that I had changed my mind — I would do the drawing 
from my man. At this my visitor turned pale and 
stood looking at me. "Is he your idea of an English 
gentleman?" he asked. 

I was disappointed, I was nervous, I wanted to get 
on with my work ; so I replied with irritation : "Oh, 
my dear Major — I can't be ruined for you!" 

He stood another moment; then, without a word, 
he quitted the studio. I drew a long breath when he 
was gone, for I said to myself that I shouldn't see him 
again. I had not told him definitely that I was in 
danger of having my work rejected, but I was vexed 
at his not having felt the catastrophe in the air, read 



236 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

with me the moral of our fruitless collaboration, the 
lesson that, in the deceptive atmosphere of art, even 
the highest respectability may fail of being plastic. 

I didn't owe my friends money, but I did see them 
again. They reappeared together three days later, and 
under the circumstances there was something tragic 
in the fact. It was a proof to me that they could find 
nothing else in life to do. They had threshed the mat- 
ter out in a dismal conference — they had digested the 
bad news that they were not in for the series. If they 
were not useful to me even for the Cheapside their 
function seemed difficult to determine, and I could only 
judge at first that they had come, forgivingly, decor- 
ously, to take a last leave. This made me rejoice in 
secret that I had little leisure for a scene; for I had 
placed both my other models in position together and 
was pegging away at a drawing from which I hoped 
to derive glory. It had been suggested by the passage 
in which Rutland Ramsay, drawing up a chair to Arte- 
misia's piano-stool, says extraordinary things to her 
while she ostensibly fingers out a difficult piece of 
music. I had done Miss Churm at the piano before — 
it was an attitude in which she knew how to take on an 
absolutely poetic grace. I wished the two figures to 
"compose" together, intensely, and my little Italian 
had entered perfectly into my conception. The pair 
were vividly before me, the piano had been pulled out; 
it was a charming picture of blended youth and mur- 
mured love, which I had only to catch and keep. My 
visitors stood and looked at it, and I was friendly to 
them over my shoulder. 



THE REAL THING 237 

They made no response, but I was used to silent 
company and went on with my work, only a little 
disconcerted (even though exhilarated by the sense 
that this was at least the ideal thing) at not having got 
rid of them after all. Presently I heard Mrs. Mon- 
arch's sweet voice beside, or rather above me : "I 
wish her hair was a little better done." I looked up 
and she was staring with a strange fixedness at Miss 
Churm, whose back was turned to her. "Do you mind 
my just touching it?" she went on — a question which 
made me spring up for an instant, as with the instinct- 
ive fear that she might do the young lady a harm. But 
she quieted me with a glance I shall never forget — I 
confess I should like to have been able to paint that — 
and went for a moment to my model. She spoke to 
her softly, laying a hand upon her shoulder and bend- 
ing over her; and as the girl, understanding, gratefully 
assented, she disposed her rough curls, with a few 
quick passes, in such a way as to make Miss Churm's 
head twice as charming. It was one of the most heroic 
personal services I have ever seen rendered. Then 
Mrs. Monarch turned away with a low sigh and, look- 
ing about her as if for something to do, stooped to the 
floor with a noble humility and picked up a dirty rag 
that had dropped out of my paint-box. 

The Major meanwhile had also been looking for 
something to do, and, wandering to the other end of 
the studio, saw before him my breakfast things, neg- 
lected, unremoved. "I say, can't I be useful here?" 
he called out to me, with an irrepressible quaver. I 
assented with a laugh that I fear was awkward and 



238 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

for the next ten minutes, while I worked, I heard the 
light clatter of china and the tinkle of spoons and 
glass. Mrs. Monarch assisted her husband — they 
washed up my crockery, they put it away. They 
wandered off into my little scullery, and I afterward 
found that they had cleaned my knives and that my 
slender stock of plate had an unprecedented surface. 
When it came over me, the latent eloquence of what 
they were doing, I confess that my drawing was 
blurred for a moment — the picture swam. They had 
accepted their failure, but they couldn't accept their 
fate. They had bowed their heads in bewilderment to 
the perverse and cruel law in virtue of which the real 
thing could be so much less precious than the unreal; 
but they didn't want to starve. If my servants were 
my models, my models might be my servants. They 
would reverse the parts — the others would sit for the 
ladies and gentlemen, and they would do the work. 
They would still be in the studio — it was an intense 
dumb appeal to me not to turn them out. "Take us 
on," they wanted to say — "we'll do anything." 

When all this hung before me the afflatus vanished 
— my pencil dropped from my hand. My sitting 
was spoiled and I got rid of my sitters, who were also 
evidently rather mystified and awestruck. Then, 
alone with the Major and his wife, I had a most 
uncomfortable moment. He put their prayer into a 
single sentence : "I say, you know — just let us do 
for you, can't you?" I couldn't — it was dreadful 
to see them emptying my slops; but I pretended I 
could, to oblige them, for about a week. Then I 



THE REAL THING 239 

gave them a sum of money to go away; and I never 
saw them again. I obtained the remaining books, 
but my friend Hawley repeats that Major and Mrs. 
Monarch did me a permanent harm, got me into a 
second-rate trick. If it be true I am content to have 
paid the price — for the memory. 



Henry James, Jr. 



Henry James, Jr., now over seventy years of age, 
has been writing steadily through almost half a cen- 
tury. He came of a good New York family, his father 
being a distinguished philosopher and man of letters. 
The boy was surrounded by the most cultivated in- 
fluences, but lived a rather lonely life in the family 
mansion on Fourteenth Street, in New York City. 
His early impressions he has recorded in A Small Boy 
and Others. When he was twelve years old, he was 
sent to Europe for travel and study ; he attended vari- 
ous schools in Geneva, Paris, and Bonn, but after four 
years returned to America in order to enter Harvard. 
Since his twenty-sixth year, he has lived much abroad, 
chiefly in England. 

Mr. James began his contributions to the magazines 
in 1866, when the demand for the short-story was rap- 
idly increasing, and when the pioneer work in Ameri- 
can fiction had been done. He had no need to print 
anything hasty or unfinished, since the family means 
precluded the necessity of "pot-boilers." He could 
afford to do the best in his power, to be deliberate, 
sure, workmanlike. His stories are distinctly the 



240 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

product of the craftsman's art. They are cool, re- 
served, well-devised, never less than serious and com- 
plete. He has indeed a thoroughly self-conscious sys- 
tem, and has written much on the theory of fiction, 
with the authority of the practiced man of letters and 
the perfectly equipped critic. In the immense mass 
of his collected writings, it is difficult to find any one 
piece which does not show the mark of a sophisticated 
method. The types of personality which Mr. James 
reproduces in his fiction are not particularly varied. 
Those which appear most frequently are the Euro- 
peanized American and the crude American in Europe. 
Daisy Miller, perhaps the most widely read of the 
James stories, is a characterization of the unrestrained, 
ill-mannered, but sincere and well-intentioned Ameri- 
can girl abroad. This story was bitterly resented by 
some of Daisy Miller's countrymen, who felt that it 
was unfair to real American culture. A favorite novel 
with admirers of Mr. James' work is The Portrait of 
a Lady. Other novels are Roderick Hudson and its 
sequel, The Princess Casamassima, The American, 
The Awkward Age, The Bostonians, and The Tragic 
Muse. Some of the later books, such as The Golden 
Bowl, The Sacred Fount, and The Wings of a Dove, 
represent the extreme of the analytical method, and 
make rather hard reading for those accustomed to a 
more obvious manner of treatment and expression. 
The short-stories, which are numerous, display the es- 
sential characteristics of the longer narratives. The 
best known are The Real Thing, The Beldonald Hol- 
bein, The Liar, and Paste. The Turn of the Screw, 



THE REAL THING 241 

although very long, preserves that totality of impres- 
sion which inclines the usual critic to class it as a short- 
story. 

The influence of Mr. James upon American fiction 
has been very great ; it can be traced chiefly in the mag- 
azine writers, but also in some of the novelists of 
recent years. The student would do well to read as 
many as possible of the introductions, written by Mr. 
James himself, to the twenty-four volumes of his 
works, published by the Scribner Company. 

bibliography 
Henry James, Jr. : 

Brownell, W. C. : American Prose Masters, pp. 337- 

400. 
Vedder, H. C. : American Writers of To-day, pp. 69 

et seq. 
Cary, E. L. : The Novels of Henry James. 
James, Henry : A Small Boy and Others. 
James, Henry: The Art of Fiction. 
Atlantic, 95 : 496. 
Scribner's, 36 : 394. 
Critic, 44: 146. 

Bookman, 15:396; 21:464; 37: 595. 
Living Age, 265 : 643. 
Nation, 97 : 79. 
North American, 180: 102. 
Century, 84:108 (Portrait). 
Scribner, 48:670 (Portrait). 
Chautauquan, 64:146 (Portrait). 

Stories by Henry James : 
The Beldonald Holbein. 
Paste. 



242 HENRY JAMES, JR. 

The Turn of the Screw. 

The Liar. 

The Coxon Fund. 

The Lesson of the Master. 

A Bundle of Letters. 

The Death of the Lion. 

Four Meetings. 

The Pension Beaurepas. 

The Patagonia. 

Europe. 

Julia' Bride. 

The Real Right Thing. 

Broken Wings. 

An International Episode. 

Brooksmith. 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 

By Nathaniel Hawthorne 

That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once 
invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study. 
There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Med- 
bourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and 
a withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow 
Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, 
who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest 
misfortune it was that they were not long ago in their 
graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had 
been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by 
a frantic speculation, and was now little better than a 
mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best 
years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of 
sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of 
pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of 
soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, 
a man of evil fame, or at least had been so till time 
had buried him from the knowledge of the present 
generation, and made him obscure instead of infamous. 
As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that 
she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long 
while past, she had lived in deep seclusion, on account 
of certain scandalous stories which had prejudiced the 

243 



244 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance 
worth mentioning that each of these three old gentle- 
men, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gas- 
coigne, were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and 
had once been on the point of cutting each other's 
throats for her sake. And, before proceeding further, 
I will merely hint that Dr. Heidegger and all his four 
guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside 
themselves, — as is not unfrequently the case with old 
people, when worried either by present troubles or 
woful recollections. 

"My dear old friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motion- 
ing them to be seated, "I am desirous of your assist- 
ance in one of those little experiments with which I 
amuse myself here in my study." 

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must 
have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old- 
fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs and be- 
sprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood 
several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which 
were filled with rows of gigantic folios and black- 
letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment- 
covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was 
a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according 
to some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to 
hold consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. 
In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and 
narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which 
doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the 
bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high 
and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 245 

many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was 
fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased 
patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him 
in the face whenever he looked thitherward. The op- 
posite side of the chamber was ornamented with the 
full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the 
faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and 
with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a 
century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of 
marriage with this young lady; but, being affected 
with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of 
her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal eve- 
ning. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to 
be mentioned ; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound 
in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There 
were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the 
title of the book. But it was well known to be a book 
of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, 
merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had rattled 
in its closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped 
one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had 
peeped forth from the mirror ; while the brazen head of 
Hippocrates frowned, and said, "Forbear!" 

Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer 
afternoon of our tale a small round table, as black as 
ebony, stood in the center of the room, sustaining a 
cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate work- 
manship. The sunshine came through the window, 
between the heavy festoons of two faded damask cur- 
tains, and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild 
splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages 



246 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

of the five old people who sat around. Four cham- 
pagne glasses were also on the table. 

"My dear old friends," repeated Dr. Heidegger, 
"may I reckon on your aid in performing an exceed- 
ingly curious experiment?" 

Now, Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentle- 
man, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a 
thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to 
my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back 
to my own veracious self; and if any passages of the 
present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be 
content to bear the stigma of a fiction monger. 

When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of 
his proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more 
wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air 
pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the micro- 
scope, or some similar nonsense, with which he was 
constantly in the habit of pestering his intimates. But 
without waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled 
across the chamber, and returned with the same pon- 
derous folio, bound in black leather, which common 
report affirmed to be a book of magic. Undoing the 
silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from 
among its black-letter pages a rose, or what was once 
a rose, though now the green leaves and crimson petals 
had assumed one brownish hue, and the ancient flower 
seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. 

"This rose," said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, "this 
same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five 
and fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, 
whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 247 

in my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years It 
has been treasured between the leaves of this old vol- 
ume. Now, would you deem it possible that this rose 
of half a century could ever bloom again?" 

"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly, with a 
peevish toss of her head. "You might as well ask 
whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever 
bloom again." 

"See!" answered Dr. Heidegger. 

He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose 
into the water which it contained. At first it lay 
lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to im- 
bibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singu- 
lar change began to be visible. The crushed and dried 
petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crim- 
son, as if the flower were reviving from a deathlike 
slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became 
green; and there was the rose of half a century, look- 
ing as fresh as' when Sylvia Ward had first given it to 
her lover. It was scarcely full blown; for some of 
its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist 
bosom, within which two or three dewdrops were 
sparkling. 

"That is certainly a very pretty deception," said the 
doctor's friends ; carelessly, however, for the}' had wit- 
nessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show; "pray 
how was it effected?" 

"Did you never hear of the 'Fountain of Youth'?" 
asked Dr. Heidegger, "which Ponce De Leon, the 
Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or three 
centuries ago?" 



248 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

"But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?" said the 
Widow Wycherly. 

"No," answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never 
sought it in the right place. The famous Fountain of 
Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the 
southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from 
Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several 
gigantic magnolias, which, though numberless cen- 
turies old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the 
virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of 
mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent 
me what you see in the vase." 

"Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not 
a word of the doctor's story; "and what may be the 
effect of this fluid on the human frame?" 

"You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel," 
replied Dr. Heidegger; "and all of you, my respected 
friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable 
fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For 
my own part, having had much trouble in growing 
old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With 
your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the 
progress of the experiment." 

While he spoke Dr. Heidegger had been filling the 
four champagne glasses with the water of the Foun- 
tain of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with 
an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually 
ascending from the depths of the glasses and bursting 
in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor dif- 
fused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not 
that it possessed cordial and comfortable properties: 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 249 

and though utter skeptics as to its rejuvenescent 
power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. But 
Dr. Heidegger besought them to stay a moment. 

"Before you drink, my respectable old friends," 
said he, "it would be well that, with the experience of 
a lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few 
general rules for your guidance, in passing a second 
time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin 
and shame it would be if, with your peculiar advan- 
tages, you should not become patterns of virtue and 
wisdom to all the young people of the age!" 

The doctor's four venerable friends made him no 
answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so 
very ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely 
repentance treads behind the steps of error, they should 
ever go astray again. 

"Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing: "I rejoice 
that I have so well selected the subjects of my ex- 
periment." 

With palsied hands they raised the glasses to their 
lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as 
Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been be- 
stowed on four human beings who needed it more 
wo fully. They looked as if they had never known 
what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring 
of Nature's dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, 
sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping 
round the doctor's table, without life enough in their 
souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect 
of growing young again. They drank off the water, 
and replaced their glasses on the table. 



250 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

Assuredly there was an almost immediate improve- 
ment in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might 
have been produced by a glass of generous wine, to- 
gether with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine bright- 
ening over all their visages at once. There was a 
healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the 
ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. 
They gazed at one another, and fancied that some 
magic power had really begun to smooth away the deep 
and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been so 
long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wych- 
erly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman 
again. 

''Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they 
eagerly. "We are younger — but we are still too old ! 
Quick — give us more!" 

"Patience, patience !" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat 
watching the experiment with philosophic coolness. 
"You have been a long time growing old. Surely, you 
might be content to grow young in half an hour! But 
the water is at your service." 

Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of 
youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to 
turn half the old people in the city to the age of their 
own grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet 
sparkling on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched 
their glasses from the table and swallowed the contents 
at a single gulp. Was it delusion? even while the 
draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to 
have wrought a change on their whole systems. Their 
eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 251 

among their silvery locks, they sat around the table, 
three gentlemen of middle age, and a woman, hardly 
beyond her buxom prime. 

"My dear widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel 
Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, 
while the shadows of age were flitting from it like 
darkness from the crimson daybreak. 

The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killi- 
grew's compliments were not always measured by sober 
truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still 
dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would 
meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen be- 
haved in such a manner as proved that the water of 
the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxicating 
qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits 
were merely a lightsome dizziness caused by the sud- 
den removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's 
mind seemed to run on political topics, but whether 
relating to the past, present, or future could not easily 
be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have 
been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth 
full-throated sentences about patriotism, national 
glory, and the people's right; now he muttered some 
perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, 
so cautiously that even his own conscience could 
scarcely catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke 
in measured accents, and a deeply deferential tone, 
as if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned 
periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been 
trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his glass 
in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered 



252 NATHANIEL HAWTHORN? 

toward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. 
On the other side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was 
involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, with 
which was strangely intermingled a project for sup- 
plying the East Indies with ice, by harnessing a team 
of whales to the polar icebergs. 

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the 
mirror courtesying and simpering to her own image, 
and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better 
than all the world beside. She thrust her face close to 
the glass, to see whether some long-remembered 
wrinkle or crow's foot had indeed vanished. She ex- 
amined whether the snow had so entirely melted from 
her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown 
aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with 
a sort of dancing step to the table. 

"My dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me 
w r ith another glass !" 

"Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the 
complaisant doctor; "see! I have already filled the 
glasses." 

There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of 
this wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it 
effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremu- 
lous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset 
that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a 
mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the 
vase, and rested alike on the four guests and on the 
doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a high-backed, 
elaborately carved oaken armchair, with a gray dignity 
of aspect that might have well befitted that very Father 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 2$$ 

Time, whose power had never been disputed, save by 
this fortunate company. Even while quaffing the third 
draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost 
awed by the expression of his mysterious visage. 

But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of 
young life shot through their veins. They were now 
in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable 
train of cares and sorrows and diseases, was remem- 
bered only as the trouble of a dream, from which they 
had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so 
early lost, and without which the world's successive 
scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again 
threw its enchantment over all their prospects. They 
felt like new-created beings in a new-created universe. 

"We are young! We are young!" they cried ex- 
ultingly. 

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the 
strongly marked characteristics of middle life, and 
mutually assimilated them all. They were a group of 
merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuber- 
ant frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular 
effect of their gaiety was an impulse to mock the in- 
firmity and decrepitude of which they had so lately 
been the victims. They laughed loudly at their old- 
fashioned attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped 
waistcoats of the young men, and the ancient cap and 
gown of the blooming girl. One limped across the 
floor like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spec- 
tacles astride of his nose, and pretended to pore over 
the black-letter pages of the book of magic; a third 
seated himself in an armchair and strove to imitate the 



254 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted 
mirthfully, and leaped about the room. The Widow 
Wycherly — if so fresh a damsel could be called a 
widow — tripped up to the doctor's chair, with a mis- 
chievous merriment in her rosy face. 

"Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and 
dance with me!" And then the four young people 
laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure 
the poor old doctor would cut. 

"Pray excuse me," answered the doctor quietly. "I 
am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over 
long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen 
will be glad of so pretty a partner." 

"Dance with me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew. 

"No, no, I will be her partner!" shouted Mr. Gas- 
coigne. 

"She promised me her hand fifty years ago!" ex- 
claimed Mr. Medbourne. 

They all gathered round her. One caught both her 
hands in his passionate grasp — another threw his arm 
about her waist — the third buried his hand among the 
glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. 
Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her 
warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she 
strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their 
triple embrace. Neveifwas there a livelier picture of 
youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the 
prize. Yet, by a Strange deception, owing to the duski- 
ness of the chamber, and the antique dresses which 
they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected 
the figures of the three old, gray, withered grandsires, 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 235 

ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a 
shriveled grandam. 

But they were young : their burning passions proved 
them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the 
girl widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld 
her favors, the three rivals began to interchange 
threatening glances. Still keeping hold of the fair 
prize, they grappled fiercely at one another's throats. 
As they struggled to and fro, the table was overturned 
and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The 
precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream 
across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, 
which, grown old in the decline of summer, had 
alighted there to die. The insect fluttered lightly 
through the chamber, and settled on the snowy head 
of Dr. Heidegger. 

"Come, come, gentlemen ! — come, Madam Wych- 
erly," exclaimed the doctor, "I really must protest 
against this riot." 

They stood still and shivered, for it seemed as if 
gray Time were calling them back from their sunny 
youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of 
years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in 
his carved armchair, holding the rose of half a cen- 
tury, which he had rescued from among the fragments 
of the shattered vase. At the motion of his hand the 
four rioters resumed their seats ; the more readily be- 
cause their violent exertions had wearied them, youth- 
ful though they were. 

"My poor Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, 



256 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

holding it in the light of the sunset clouds ; "it appears 
to be fading again." 

And so it was. Even while the party were looking 
at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became 
as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown 
it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moist- 
ure which clung to its petals. 

"I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness," 
observed he, pressing the withered rose to his with- 
ered lips. While he spoke the butterfly fluttered down 
from the doctor's snowy head and fell upon the floor. 

His guests shivered again. A strange chillness, 
whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was 
creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one 
another, and fancied that each fleeting moment 
snatched away a charm, and left a deepening furrow 
where none had been before. Was it an illusion? 
Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so 
brief a space, and were they now four aged people, 
sitting with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger ? 

"Are we grown old again so soon?" cried they, 
dolefully. 

In truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed 
merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The 
delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes ! 
they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, that 
showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her 
skinny hands before her face, and wished that the 
coffin lid were over it, since it could be no longer 
beautiful. 

"Yes, friends, ye are old again," said Dr. Heideg- 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 257 

ger, "and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on 
the ground. Well — I bemoan it not; for if the foun- 
tain gushed at my very doorstep I would not stoop to 
bathe my lips in it — no, though its delirium were for 
years instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have 
taught me!" 

But the doctor's four friends had taught no such 
lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make 
a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon 
and night from the Fountain of Youth. 



Nathaniel Hawthorne 

The life of Hawthorne had in it no dramatic qual- 
ity; it was simple and uneventful, passed chiefly in a 
homogeneous rural society that offered but little stimu- 
lation to the literary mind. He was born in Salem, 
Massachusetts, in 1804. His father, a sea captain, 
died while the boy was still young. The day-school 
which young Hawthorne attended was probably as arid 
a place as most New England day-schools of the time. 
Owing to the frailness of his health, he was sent, at 
the age of fourteen, to the secluded farm of his grand- 
father, near Lake Sebago, in Maine. Here, he says, 
he first acquired the "cursed habit of solitude" which 
clung to him through life. His years at college seem 
to have been happy and varied by pleasant friendships. 

During the ten years after his leaving college he 
wrote large numbers of stories, which he destroyed in 
periods of depression, when, as he said, he felt that 



258 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

writing tales was like talking to oneself in a dark place. 
His earlier printed stories appeared in the annuals of 
the day, most frequently in the Token, published by 
Goodrich (Peter Parley). Though several of Haw- 
thorne's best bits of work appeared in the Token, they 
did not attract the attention that they deserved. In 
the preface to the Twice-told Tales he says, "I was 
for many years the obscurest man of letters in 
America." Despite the fact that these Tales, pub- 
lished in 1837, gave him a definite claim to the title 
of man of letters, yet it was not until the publication 
of The Scarlet Letter in 1849 that he obtained the 
recognition due his extraordinary genius. He showed 
the first part of the manuscript to Mr. James T. Fields 
with the remark that it was "very good or very bad, 
he could not precisely tell which." It did not take 
Fields long to find out, and his excitement over the 
discovery of a classic is a part of literary history. The 
House of Seven Gables and The Blithedale Ro- 
mance, with its picture of life at Brook Farm, were 
further proof of the author's power. The Marble 
Faun, the result of residence in Rome, completed a 
group of novels such as had never been equalled in 
America. Hawthorne died in 1864, not long after 
his return from an extended sojourn in Europe. 

In his short-stories Hawthorne reached a pitch of 
excellence which was attained in his day only by that 
other romantic story-teller, Edgar Allan Poe. Though 
the genius of Hawthorne was distinctly original, it is 
not unlikely that he was influenced to some degree by 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 259 

Austin's Peter Rugg (1824).* He was certainly in- 
fluenced by the German romanticism of the period, of 
which he had a first-hand knowledge, as is shown by 
the study of Tieck recorded in his Notebook, his 
reference to Peter Schlemihl's shadow in A Virtu- 
oso's Collection, and other evidence duly noted by 
the critics. Naturally, however, Hawthorne possessed 
the romantic temperament, and German wonder tales 
could do no more than emphasize his own prevailing 
tendency. 

The didactic type of story is often dull and re- 
pellant; but in the hands of Hawthorne it becomes 
whimsical, fanciful, and entertaining. The moral tone 
which he gives it is spontaneous and deep. His im- 
aginative quality and his delicate sense of humor, as 
well as the singular purity of his style, combine to 
make his stories admirable beyond cavil, though they 
may indeed sound a bit old-fashioned beside the "rapid 
transit" narratives of to-day. 

bibliography 

Nathaniel Hawthorne: 

Hawthorne, Julian: Nathaniel Hawthorne and His 

Wife. 
Hawthorne, Julian : Hawthorne and His Circle. 
Woodberry, G. E. : Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
Stearns, F. P. : The Life and Genius of Nathaniel 

Hawthorne. 

* In this connection see Conway, M.D. : The Life of Haw- 
thorne, pp. 68, 69. For Peter Rugg, see Baldwin, C.S. : The 
American Short-Story. 



26o NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

Lathrop, G. P. : A Study of Hawthorne. 

Conway, M. D. : Hawthorne. 

James, Henry: Hawthorne. 

Bridge, Horatio : Personal Recollections of Nathaniel 

Hawthorne. 
Dhaleine, L. N. : Hawthorne, sa Vie et son Oeuvre. 
Brownell, W. C. : American Prose Masters, pp. 61- 

130. 
Wendell, Barrett : A Literary History of America, pp. 

425-435. 

Erskine, John: Leading American Novelists. 

Hutton, R. H. : Literary Essays, pp. 437-490. 

More, P. E. : Shelburne Essays, First Series. 

Canby, H. S. : The Short-Story in English, Chap- 
ter 12. 

Stories by Hawthorne: 
The Great Stone Face. 
The Great Carbuncle. 
The Ambitious Guest. 
The Gray Champion. 
The Maypole of Merry Mount. 
Roger Malvin's Burial. 
The Snow Image. 
The Prophetic Pictures. 
The Vision of the Fountain. 
The Birthmark. 
Young Goodman Brown. 
Feathertop: A Moralized Legend. 
Drowne's Wooden Image. 
Ethan Brand. 

The Artist of the Beautiful. 
The Celestial Railroad. 



DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 261 

The Gentle Boy. 
Allegorical Stories: 

The Hunter Olive Schreiner. 

The Artist's Secret Olive Schreiner. 

The Vision of Mirza Joseph Addison. 

The Ugly Duckling Hans Christian Andersen. 

Monsieur Seguin's Goat. . . .Alphonse Daudet. 
The Man with the Golden 

Brain Alphonse Daudet. 

The Blue Flower Henry Van Dyke. 

The White Blackbird Alfred de Musset. 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO* 

By Israel Zangwill 

One day it occurred to Leibel that he ought to get 
married. He went to Sugarman the Shadchan forth- 
with. 

"I have the very thing for you," said the great mar- 
riage broker. 

"Is she pretty?" asked Leibel. 

"Her father has a boot and shoe warehouse," re- 
plied Sugarman, enthusiastically. 

"Then there ought to be a dowry with her," said 
Leibel, eagerly. 

"Certainly a dowry! A fine man like you!" 

"How much do you think it would be?" 

"Of course it is not a large warehouse; but then 
you could get your boots at trade price, and your 
wife's, perhaps, for the cost of the leather." 

"When could I see her?" 

"I will arrange for you to call next Sabbath after- 
noon." 

"You won't charge me more than a sovereign?" 

"Not a groschen more ! Such a pious maiden ! I'm 

sure you will be happy. She has so much way-of-the- 

* Printed by permission of the author. Copyright by the 
Macmillan Company. 

262 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 263 

country [breeding]. And of course five per cent, on 
the dowry?" 

"H'm! Well, I don't mind! Perhaps they won't 
give a dowry," he thought, with a consolatory sense 
of outwitting the Shadchan. 

On the Saturday Leibel went to see the damsel, and 
on the Sunday he went to see Sugarman the Shad- 
chan. 

"But your maiden squints !" he cried, resentfully. 

"An excellent thing!" said Sugarman. "A wife who 
squints can never look her husband straight in the face 
and overwhelm him. Who would quail before a 
woman with a squint?" 

"I could endure the squint," went on Leibel, dubi- 
ously, "but she also stammers." 

"Well, what is better, in the event of a quarrel? 
The difficulty she has in talking will keep her far more 
silent than most wives. You had best secure her 
while you have the chance." 

"But she halts on the left leg," cried Leibel, exas- 
perated. 

"Gott in Himmel! Do you mean to say you do not 
see what an advantage it is to have a wife unable 
to accompany you in all your goings?" 

Leibel lost patience. 

"Why, the girl is a hunchback !" he protested, furi- 
ously. 

"My dear Leibel," said the marriage broker, depre- 
catingly shrugging his shoulders and spreading out his 
palms, "you can't expect perfection!" 

Nevertheless Leibel persisted in his unreasonable 



264 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

attitude. He accused Sugarman of wasting his time, 
of making a fool of him. 

"A fool of you !" echoed the Shadchan, indignantly, 
"when I give you a chance of a boot and shoe manu- 
facturer's daughter? You will make a fool of your- 
self if you refuse. I dare say her dowry would be 
enough to set you up as a master tailor. At present 
you are compelled to slave away as a cutter for thirty 
shillings a week. It is most unjust. If you only had 
a few machines you would be able to employ your own 
cutters. And they can be got so cheap nowadays." 

This gave Leibel pause, and he departed without 
having definitely broken the negotiations. His whole 
week was befogged by doubt, his work became uncer- 
tain, his chalk marks lacked their usual decision, and 
he did not always cut his coat according to his cloth. 
His aberrations became so marked that pretty Rose 
Green, the sweater's eldest daughter, who managed 
a machine in the same room, divined, with all a 
woman's intuition, that he was in love. 

"What is the matter?" she said, in rallying Yid- 
dish, when they were taking their lunch of bread and 
cheese and ginger-beer amid the clatter of machines, 
whose serfs had not yet knocked off work. 

"They are proposing me a match," he answered, 
sullenly. 

"A match," ejaculated Rose. "Thou!" She had 
worked by his side for years, and familiarity bred the 
second person singular. Leibel nodded his head, and 
put a mouthful of Dutch cheese into it. 

"With whom?" asked Rose. Somehow he felt 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 265 

ashamed. He gurgled the answer into the stone gin- 
ger-beer bottle, which he put to his thirsty lips. 

"With Leah Volcovitch!" 

"Leah Volcovitch!" gasped Rose. "Leah, the boot 
and shoe manufacturer's daughter?" 

Leibel hung his head — he scarce knew why. He did 
not dare to meet her gaze. His droop said "Yes." 
There was a long pause. 

"And why dost thou not have her?" said Rose. It 
was more than an inquiry; there was contempt in it, 
and perhaps even pique. 

Leibel did not reply. The embarrassing silence 
reigned again, and reigned long. Rose broke it at 
last. 

"Is it that thou likest me better?" she asked. 

Leibel seemed to see a ball of lightning in the air; 
it burst, and he felt the electric current strike right 
through his heart. The shock threw his head up with 
a jerk, so that his eyes gazed into a face whose beauty 
and tenderness were revealed to him for the first time. 
The face of his old acquaintance had vanished; this 
was a cajoling, coquettish, smiling face, suggesting un- 
dreamed-of things. 

"Nu, yes," he replied, without perceptible pause. 

"Nu, good!" she rejoined as quickly. 

And in the ecstasy of that moment of mutual un- 
derstanding Leibel forgot to wonder why he had 
never thought of Rose before. Afterward he remem- 
bered that she had always been his social superior. 

The situation seemed too dream-like for explana- 
tion to the room just yet. Leibel lovingly passed the 



266 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

bottle of ginger-beer, and Rose took a sip, with a 
beautiful air of plighting troth, understood only of 
those two. When Leibel quaffed the remnant, it in- 
toxicated him. The relics of the bread and cheese 
were the ambrosia to this nectar. They did not dare 
kiss; the suddenness of it all left them bashful, and 
the smack of lips would have been like a cannon-peal 
announcing their engagement. There was a subtler 
sweetness in this sense of a secret, apart from the fact 
that neither cared to break the news to the master 
tailor, a stern little old man. Leibel's chalk marks 
continued indecisive that afternoon, which shows how 
correctly Rose had connected them with love. 

Before he left that night, Rose said to him, "Art 
thou sure thou wouldst not rather have Leah Volco- 
vitch?" 

"Not for all the boots and shoes in the world," re- 
plied Leibel, vehemently. 

"And I," protested Rose, "would rather go without 
my own than without thee." 

The landing outside the workshop was so badly 
lighted that their lips came together in the darkness. 

"Nay, nay ; thou must not yet/' said Rose. "Thou 
art still courting Leah Volcovitch. For aught thou 
knowest, Sugarman the Shadchan may have entangled 
thee beyond redemption." 

"Not so," asserted Leibel. "I have only seen the 
maiden once." 

"Yes. But Sugarman has seen her father several 
times," persisted Rose. "For so misshapen a maiden 
his commission would be large. Thou must go to 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 267 

Sugarman to-night, and tell him that thou canst not 
find it in thy heart to go on with the match." 

"Kiss me, and I will go," pleaded Leibel. 

"Go, and I will kiss thee," said Rose, resolutely. 

"And when shall we tell thy father?" he asked, 
pressing her hand, as the next best thing to her lips. 

"As soon as thou art free from Leah." 

"But will he consent?" 

"He will not be glad," said Rose, frankly. "But 
after mother's death — peace be upon her — the rule 
passed from her hands into mine." 

"Ah, that is well," said Leibel. He was a super- 
ficial thinker. 

Leibel found Sugarman at supper. The great Shad- 
chan offered him a chair, but nothing else. Hospitality 
was associated in his mind with special occasions only, 
and involved lemonade and "stuffed monkeys." 

He was very put out — almost to the point of indi- 
gestion — to hear of Leibel's final determination, and 
plied him with reproachful enquiries. 

"You don't mean to say that you give up a boot and 
shoe manufacturer merely because his daughter has 
round shoulders !" he exclaimed, incredulously. 

"It is more than round shoulders — it is a hump!" 
cried Leibel. 

"And suppose? See how much better off you will 
be when you get your own machines ! We do not re- 
fuse to let camels carry our burdens because they 
have humps." 

"Ah, but a wife is not a camel," said Leibel, with a 
sage air. 



268 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

"And a cutter is not a master tailor," retorted 
Sugarman. 

"Enough, enough!" cried Leibel. "I tell you, I 
would not have her if she were a machine warehouse." 

"There sticks something behind," persisted Sugar- 
man, unconvinced. 

Leibel shook his head. "Only her hump," he said, 
with a flash of humor. 

"Moses Mendelssohn had a hump," expostulated 
Sugarman, reproachfully. 

"Yes, but he was a heretic," rejoined Leibel, who 
was not without reading. "And then he was a man! 
A man with two humps could find a wife for each. 
But a woman with a hump cannot expect a husband in 
addition." 

"Guard your tongue from evil," quoth the Shad- 
chan, angrily. "If everybody were to talk like you, 
Leah Volcovitch would never be married at all." 

Leibel shrugged his shoulders, and reminded him 
that hunchbacked girls who stammered and squinted 
and halted on left legs were not usually led under 
the canopy. 

"Nonsense! Stuff!" cried Sugarman, angrily. 
"That is because they do not come to me." 

"Leah Volcovitch has come to you," said Leibel, 
"but she shall not come to me." And he rose, anxious 
to escape. 

Instantly Sugarman gave a sigh of resignation. "Be 
it so ! Then I shall have to look out for another, that's 
all." 

"No, I don't want any," replied Leibel, quickly. 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 269 

Sugarman stopped eating. "You don't want any?" 
he cried. "But you came to me for one?" 

"I — I — know," stammered Leibel. "But I've — I've 
altered my mind." 

"One needs Hillel's patience to deal with you !" cried 
Sugarman. "But I shall charge you, all the same, for 
my trouble. You cannot cancel an order like this in 
the middle! No, no! You can play fast and loose 
with Leah Volcovitch, but you shall not make a fool 
of me." 

"But if I don't want one?" said Leibel, sullenly. 

Sugarman gazed at him with a cunning look of sus- 
picion. "Didn't I say there was something sticking 
behind?" 

Leibel felt guilty. "But whom have you got in 
your eye?" he inquired desperately. 

"Perhaps you may have some one in yours !" naively 
answered Sugarman. 

Leibel gave a hypocritic long-drawn "U-m-m-m! 

I wonder if Rose Green — where I work " he said, 

and stopped. 

"I fear not," said Sugarman. "She is on my list. 
Her father gave her to me some months ago, but he 
is hard to please. Even the maiden herself is not 
easy, being pretty." 

"Perhaps she has waited for some one," suggested 
Leibel. 

Sugarman's keen ear caught the note of complacent 
triumph. 

"You have been asking her yourself !" he exclaimed, 
in horror-stricken accents. 



270 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

"And if I have?" said Leibel, defiantly. 

"You have cheated me ! And so has Eliphaz Green 
— I always knew he was tricky! You have both de- 
frauded me!" 

"I did not mean to," said Leibel, mildly. 

"You did mean to. You had no business to take 
the matter out of my hands. What right had you to 
propose to Rose Green?" 

"I did not," cried Leibel, excitedly. 

"Then you asked her father!" 

"No ; I have not asked her father yet." 

"Then how do you know she will have you?" 

"I — I know," stammered Leibel, feeling himself 
somehow a liar as well as a thief. His brain was in a 
whirl ; he could not remember how the thing had come 
about. Certainly he had not proposed; nor could he 
say that she had. 

"You know she will have you," repeated Sugarman, 
reflectively. "And does she know?" 

"Yes. In fact," he blurted out, "we arranged it to- 
gether." 

"Ah, you both know. And does her father know?" 

"Not yet." 

"Ah, then I must get his consent," said Sugarman, 
decisively. 

"I — I thought of speaking to him myself." 

"Yourself!" echoed Sugarman, in horror. "Are 
you unsound in the head ? Why, that would be worse 
than the mistake you have already made !" 

"What mistake?" asked Leibel, firing up. 

"The mistake of asking the maiden herself. When 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 271 

you quarrel with her after your marriage, she will 
always throw it in your teeth that you wished to 
marry her. Moreover, if you tell a maiden you love 
her, her father will think you ought to marry her as 
she stands. Still, what is done is done." And he 
sighed regretfully. 

"And what more do I want? I love her." 

"You piece of clay!" cried Sugarman, contemptu- 
ously. "Love will not turn machines, much less buy 
them. You must have a dowry. Her father has a 
big stocking; he can well afford it." 

Leibel's eyes lit up. There was really no reason 
why he should not have bread and cheese with his 
kisses. 

"Now, if you went to her father," pursued the 
Shadchan, "the odds are that he would not even give 
you his daughter — to say nothing of the dowry. After 
all, it is a cheek of you to aspire so high. As you 
told me from the first, you haven't saved a penny. 
Even my commission you won't be able to pay till you 
get the dowry. But if / go I do not despair of getting 
a substantial sum — to say nothing of the daughter." 

"Yes, I think you had better go," said Leibel, 
eagerly. 

"But if I do this thing for you I shall want a pound 
more," rejoined Sugarman. 

"A pound more!" echoed Leibel, in dismay. 
"Why?" 

"Because Rose Green's hump is of gold," replied 
Sugarman, oracularly. "Also, she is fair to see, and 
many men desire her." 



272 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

"But you have always your five per cent, on the 
dowry." 

"It will be less than Volcovitch's," explained Sugar- 
man. "You see, Green has other and less beautiful 
daughters." 

"Yes, but then it settles itself more easily. Say 
five shillings." 

"Eliphaz Green is a hard man," said the Shadchan 
instead. 

"Ten shillings is the most I will give!" 

"Twelve and sixpence is the least I will take. Eli- 
phaz Green haggles so terribly." 

They split the difference, and so eleven and three- 
pence represented the predominance of Eliphaz 
Green's stinginess over Volcovitch's. 

The very next day Sugarman invaded the Green 
workroom. Rose bent over her seams, her heart flut- 
tering. Leibel had duly apprised her of the round- 
about manner in which she would have to be won, and 
she had acquiesced in the comedy. At the least it 
would save her the trouble of father-taming. 

Sugarman's entry was brusque and breathless. He 
was overwhelmed with joyous emotion. His blue 
bandanna trailed agitatedly from his coat-tail. 

"At last!" he cried, addressing the little white- 
haired master tailor; "I have the very man for you." 

"Yes?" grunted Eliphaz, unimpressed. The mono- 
syllable was packed with emotion. It said, "Have you 
really the face to come to me again with an ideal 
man?" 

"He has all the qualities that you desire," began the 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 273 

Shadchan, in a tone that repudiated the implications 
of the monosyllable. "He is young, strong, God- 
fearing " 

"Has he any money?" grumpily interrupted Eli- 
phaz. 

"He will have money/' replied Sugarman, unhesit- 
atingly, "when he marries.' , 

"Ah!" The father's voice relaxed, and his foot 
lay limp on the treadle. He worked one of his ma- 
chines himself, and paid himself the wages so as to 
enjoy the profit. "How much will he have ?" 

"I think he will have fifty pounds; and the least 
you can do is to let him have fifty pounds," replied 
Sugarman, with the same happy ambiguity. 

Eliphaz shook his head on principle. 

"Yes, you will," said Sugarman, "when you learn 
how fine a man he is." 

The flush of confusion and trepidation already on 
Leibel's countenance became a rosy glow of modesty, 
for he could not help overhearing what was being 
said, owing to the lull of the master tailor's machine. 

"Tell me, then," rejoined Eliphaz. 

"Tell me, first, if you will give fifty to a young, 
healthy, hard-working, God-fearing man, whose idea 
it is to start as a master tailor on his own account? 
And you know how profitable that is !" 

"To a man like that," said Eliphaz, in a burst of 
enthusiasm, "I would give as much as twenty-seven 
pounds ten!" 

Sugarman groaned inwardly, but Leibel's heart 
leaped with joy. To get four months' wages at a 



274 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

stroke! With twenty-seven pounds ten he could cer- 
tainly procure several machines, especially on the in- 
stalment system. Out of the corners of his eyes 
he shot a glance at Rose, who was beyond earshot. 

"Unless you can promise thirty it is waste of time 
mentioning his name," said Sugarman. 

"Well, well — who is he?" 

Sugarman bent down, lowering his voice into the 
father's ear. 

"What! Leibel!" cried Eliphaz, outraged. 

"Sh!" said Sugarman, "or he will overhear your 
delight, and ask more. He has his nose high enough, 
as it is." 

"B — b — b — ut," sputtered the bewildered parent, 
"I know Leibel myself. I see him every day. I don't 
want a Shadchan to find me a man I know — a mere 
hand in my own workshop !" 

"Your talk has neither face nor figure," answered 
Sugarman, sternly. "It is just the people one sees 
every day that one knows least. I warrant that if I 
had not put it into your head you would never have 
dreamt of Leibel as a son-in-law. Come now, con- 
fess." 

Eliphaz grunted vaguely, and the Shadchan went on 
triumphantly: "I thought as much. And yet where 
could you find a better man to keep your daughter?" 

"He ought to be content with her alone," grumbled 
her father. 

Sugarman saw the signs of weakening, and dashed 
in, full strength : "It's a question whether he will have 
her at all. I have not been to him about her yet. I 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 275 

awaited your approval of the idea." Leibel admired 
the verbal accuracy of these statements, which he 
just caught. 

"But I didn't know he would be having money," 
murmured Eliphaz. 

"Of course you didn't know. That's what the 
Shadchan is for — to point out the things that are 
under your nose." 

"But where will he be getting this money from?" 

"From you," said Sugarman, frankly. 

"From me?" 

"From whom else? Are you not his employer? It 
has been put by for his marriage day." 

"He has saved it?" 

"He has not spent it," said Sugarman, im- 
patiently. 

"But do you mean to say he has saved fifty pounds ?" 

"If he could manage to save fifty pounds out of 
your wages he would be indeed a treasure," said 
Sugarman. "Perhaps it might be thirty." 

"But you said fifty." 

"Well, you came down to thirty," retorted the 
Shadchan. "You cannot expect him to have more 
than your daughter brings." 

"I never said thirty," Eliphaz reminded him. 
"Twenty-seven ten was my last bid." 

"Very well; that will do as a basis of negotiations," 
said Sugarman, resignedly. "I will call upon him this 
evening. If I were to go over and speak to him now, 
he would perceive you were anxious, and raise his 
terms, and that will never do. Of course you will 



276 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

not mind allowing me a pound more for finding you 
so economical a son-in-law ?" 

"Not a penny more." 

"You need not fear," said Sugarman, resentfully. 
"It is not likely I shall be able to persuade him to take 
so economical a father-in-law. So you will be none 
the worse for promising." 

"Be it so," said Eliphaz, with a gesture of weari- 
ness, and he started his machine again. 

"Twenty-seven pounds ten, remember," said Sugar- 
man, above the whir. 

Eliphaz nodded his head, whirring his wheelwork 
louder. 

"And paid before the wedding, mind." 

The machine took no notice. 

"Before the wedding, mind," repeated Sugarman. 
"Before we go under the canopy." 

"Go now, go now !" grunted Eliphaz, with a gesture 
of impatience. "It shall be all well." And the white- 
haired head bowed immovably over its work. 

In the evening Rose extracted from her father the 
motive of Sugarman's visit, and confessed that the 
idea was to her liking. 

"But dost thou think he will have me, little father?" 
she asked, with cajoling eyes. 

"Anyone would have my Rose." 

"Ah, but Leibel is different. So many years' he has 
sat at my side and said nothing." 

"He had his work to think of. He is a good, saving 
youth." 

"At this very moment Sugarman is trying to per- 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 277 

suade him — not so? I suppose he will want much 
money." 

"Be easy, my child." And he passed his discolored 
hand over her hair. 

Sugarman turned up the next day, and reported that 
Leibel was unobtainable under thirty pounds; and 
Eliphaz, weary of the contest, called over Leibel, till 
that moment carefully absorbed in his scientific chalk 
marks, and mentioned the thing to him for the first 
time. "I am not a man to bargain," Eliphaz said, 
and so he gave the young man his tawny hand, and 
a bottle of rum sprang from somewhere, and work 
was suspended for five minutes, and the "hands" all 
drank amid surprised excitement. Sugarman's visits 
had prepared them to congratulate Rose; but Leibel 
was a shock. 

The formal engagement was 'marked by even greater 
junketing, and at last the marriage day came. Leibel 
was resplendent in a diagonal frock-coat, cut by his 
own hand ; and Rose stepped from the cab a medley of 
flowers, fairness, and white silk, and behind her came 
two bridesmaids, — her sisters, — a trio that glorified 
the spectator-strewn pavement outside the synagogue. 
Eliphaz looked almost tall in his shiny high hat and 
frilled shirtfront. Sugarman arrived on foot, carry- 
ing red-socked little Ebenezer tucked under his arm. 

Leibel and Rose were not the only couple to be dis- 
posed of, for it was the thirty- third day of the Omer 
— a day fruitful in marriages. 

But at last their turn came. They did not, how- 
ever, come in their turn, and their special friends 



278 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

among the audience wondered why they had lost their 
precedence. After several later marriages had taken 
place a whisper began to circulate. The rumor of a 
hitch gained ground steadily, and the sensation was 
proportionate. And, indeed, the rose was not to be 
picked without a touch of the thorn. 

Gradually the facts leaked out, and a buzz of talk 
and comment ran through the waiting synagogue. 
Eliphaz had not paid up! 

At first he declared he would put down the money 
immediately after the ceremony. But the wary Sugar- 
man, schooled by experience, demanded its instant 
delivery on behalf of his other client. Hard pressed, 
Eliphaz produced ten sovereigns from his trousers- 
pocket, and tendered them on account. These Sugar- 
man disdainfully refused, and the negotiations were 
suspended. The bridegroom's party was encamped in 
one room, the bride's in another, and after a painful 
delay Eliphaz sent in an emissary to say that half the 
amount should be forthcoming, the extra five pounds 
in a bright new Bank of England note. Leibel, in- 
structed and encouraged by Sugarman, stood firm. 

And then arose a hubbub of voices, a chaos of sug- 
gestions ; friends rushed to and fro between the camps, 
some emerging from their seats in the synagogue to 
add to the confusion. But Eliphaz had taken his stand 
upon a rock — he had no more ready money. To-mor- 
row, the next day, he would have some. And Leibel, 
pale and dogged, clutched tighter at those machines 
that were slipping away momently from him. He had 
not yet seen his bride that morning, and so her face 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 279 

was shadowy compared with the tangibility of those 
machines. Most of the other maidens were married 
women by now, and the situation was growing des- 
perate. From the female camp came terrible rumors 
of bridesmaids in hysterics, and a bride that tore her 
wreath in a passion of shame and humiliation. Eli- 
phaz sent word that he would give an I O U for the 
balance, but that he really could not muster any more 
current coin. Sugarman instructed the ambassador to 
suggest that Eliphaz should raise the money among 
his friends. 

And the short spring day slipped away. In vain 
the minister, apprised of the block, lengthened out the 
formulae for the other pairs, and blessed them with 
more reposeful unction. It was impossible to stave 
off the Leibel-Green item indefinitely, and at last Rose 
remained the only orange-wreathed spinster in the 
synagogue. And then there was a hush of solemn 
suspense, that swelled gradually into a steady rumble 
of babbling tongues, as minute succeeded minute and 
the final bridal party still failed to appear. The latest 
bulletin pictured the bride in a dead faint. The after- 
noon was waning fast. The minister left his post 
near the canopy, under which so many lives had been 
united, and came to add his white tie to the forces for 
compromise. But he fared no better than the others. 
Incensed at the obstinacy of the antagonists, he de- 
clared he would close the synagogue. He gave the 
couple ten minutes to marry in or quit. Then chaos 
came, and pandemonium — a frantic babel of sugges- 
tion and exhortation from the crowd. When five 



2 8o ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

minutes had passed a legate from Eliphaz announced 
that his side had scraped together twenty pounds, and 
that this was their final bid. 

Leibel wavered ; the long day's combat had told 
upon him; the reports of the bride's distress had weak- 
ened him. Even Sugarman had lost his cocksure- 
ness of victory. A few minutes more and both com- 
missions might slip through his fingers. Once the 
parties left the synagogue, it would not be easy to 
drive them there another day. But he cheered on his 
man still: one could always surrender at the tenth 
minute. 

At the eighth the buzz of tongues faltered suddenly, 
to be transposed into a new key, so to speak. Through 
the gesticulating assembly swept that murmur of ex- 
pectation which crowds know when the procession is 
coming at last. By some mysterious magnetism all 
were aware that the Bride herself — the poor hysteric 
bride — had left the paternal camp, was coming in per- 
son to plead with her mercenary lover. 

And as the glory of her and the flowers and the 
white draperies loomed upon Leibel's vision his heart 
melted in worship, and he knew his citadel would 
crumble in ruins at her first glance, at her first touch. 
Was it fair fighting? As his troubled vision cleared, 
and as she came nigh unto him, he saw to his amaze- 
ment that she was speckless and composed — no trace 
of tears dimmed the fairness of her face, there was 
no disarray in her bridal wreath. 

The clock showed the ninth minute. 

She put her hand appealingly on his arm, while a 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 281 

heavenly light came into her face — the expression of 
a Joan of Arc animating her country. 

"Do not give in, Leibel!" she said. "Do not have 
me! Do not let them persuade thee! By my life, 
thou must not ! Go home !" 

So at the eleventh minute the vanquished Eliphaz 
produced the balance, and they all lived happily ever 
afterward. 



Israel Zangwill 



The author of A Rose of the Ghetto, Israel Zang- 
will, was born in London in 1864. His parents were 
Russian Jews. He was sent to the free parish school 
in the Ghetto, where he made rapid progress and won 
a number of scholarships. Lord Rothschild, when the 
boy was brought to his notice, offered to send him to 
a university, but Zangwill refused. "I knew," he said, 
"that I should not fit such an environment. I knew 
that I was to write, and I wanted to be free." At six- 
teen he wrote, in collaboration with a boy friend, The 
Premier and the Painter, a story of Jewish life, which 
was published in pamphlet form. It sold well and at- 
tracted a considerable amount of attention. 

At this time Zangwill was teaching and studying in 
the parish school, but he later resigned his position 
because of a difference of opinion with the board re- 
garding corporal punishment. He ultimately took the 
degree of B. A. at London University. In the mean- 
time he had tried journalism as a means of support. 



282 ISRAEL ZANGWILL 

He wrote The Bachelors' Club, and other sketches, 
and was for a while the editor of Ariel, a comic paper. 
Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, editor of the Idler, seeing the 
young man's ability, helped and encouraged him. 
Some of the members of the Jewish Publication So- 
ciety of America urged him to write a novel of Jew- 
ish life; he responded with Children of the Ghetto, 
which brought him immediate fame. Since its publi- 
cation he has written constantly. Zangwill married 
Edith Ayrton, whose mother is said to have been the 
original of Mirah in George Eliot's Daniel Deronda. 
He lives simply in an obscure London suburb, but he 
is extremely active in Jewish affairs, and takes a keen 
interest in public matters. He is President of the 
International Jewish Territorial Organization, and 
Vice-president of the Men's League for Women's 
Suffrage. 

The best books which Zangwill has written are 
Children of the Ghetto (which has been dramatized 
with success), The Mantle of Elijah, The Master, 
and They That Walk in Darkness. The play, The 
Melting Pot, has added greatly to his renown. His 
interpretation of Jewish character, though fearless, is 
full of humor, loyalty, and earnestness. A Rose of 
the Ghetto exhibits many of the qualities which have 
given Mr. Zangwill his reputation in fiction. 



bibliography 
Israel Zangwill: 

The Jewish Encyclopaedia, Vol. XII. 
Philipson, D. : The Jew in English Fiction. 



A ROSE OF THE GHETTO 

Critic, 30 : 141 ; 42 : 266. 
Academy, 58:99; 59:466; 65:459. 
Forum, 28 : 503. 
Cosmopolitan, 53 : 396. 
Booklover's Magazine, 4 : 233. 
Saturday Review, 88 : 763. 
Bookman, 7 : 104. 

Stories by Zangwill: 
The King of Schnorrers. 
The Keeper of Conscience. 
The Grey Wig. 
The Big Bow Mystery. 
Merely Mary Ann (dramatized). 
Flutter Duck. 
The Sabbath Breaker. 
The Land of Promise. 
To Die in Jerusalem. 
The Serio-comic Governess. 
Cheating the Gallows. 



TWO FRIENDS* 

By Guy de Maupassant 

Paris was besieged and in the agonies of starva- 
tion. Sparrows were extremely scarce on the roofs, 
and the sewers were depopulated. The famished 
Parisians ate anything, no matter what. 

One clear morning in January, as M. Morissot, 
watchmaker by.profession and loafer by necessity, was 
strolling sadly along the outer boulevard, his hands in 
his pockets and his belly empty, he stopped short be- 
fore a brother-in-arms whom he recognized as a friend. 
It was M. Sauvage, a riverside acquaintance. 

Before the war, M. Morissot would start out every 
Sunday at dawn, a bamboo pole in his hand and a tin 
box on his back. He took the Argenteuil railway, got 
off at Colombes, then went on foot to Marante Island. 
When he had scarcely more than arrived at this place 
of his dreams, he would begin to fish; he kept on fish- 
ing till night. 

Every Sunday he met there a stout and jovial little 
man, M. Sauvage, a haberdasher of Rue Notre Dame 
de Lorette, another ardent fisherman. They often 
passed a half day side by side, poles in hand, with 
their feet dangling above the current; and a warm 
friendship had sprung up between them. On some 

* Translation by the editor. 

284 



TWO FRIENDS 285 

days they did not speak at all. Sometimes they talked, 
but they understood each other admirably without say- 
ing anything, for they had the same tastes and feelings. 

On a spring morning, toward ten o'clock, when the 
early sun produced a light wavering mist upon the 
tranquil water, and poured down hotly on the shoul- 
ders of the two mad fishermen, Morissot would say to 
his neighbor, "Well, how's this for happiness?" and 
M. Sauvage would respond, "I don't know of anything 
finer." And this would be enough to express their 
perfect understanding. 

In the fall, toward the end of the day, when the bril- 
liant heavens threw into the water the images of scar- 
let clouds, empurpling the whole river, inflaming the 
horizon, making the two friends as red as fire, and 
gilding the trees already tinged with yellow, M. Sau- 
vage would turn smilingly to Morissot and say, "What 
a scene!" And Morissot would answer without tak- 
ing his eyes from his bob, "This beats the boulevard, 
doesn't it?" 

In the moment of recognition, they shook hands 
heartily, very much moved to find each other under 
such different circumstances. M. Sauvage murmured, 
sighing, "Here's a great state of affairs." 

"And such weather," groaned M. Morissot ; "it's the 
first fine day of the year." 

The sky was indeed pure, blue, and luminous. 

They walked on side by side, thoughtful and sad. 
Morissot continued, "And the fish ? Ah, what a glori- 
ous memory!" 



286 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

"When shall we go back?" mused M. Sauvage. 

They went into a little cafe and drank an absinthe 
together; then they resumed their stroll along the 
streets. 

Morissot stopped suddenly: "Another absinthe, 
eh?" 

"As you please," consented M. Sauvage. They 
went into a second wine-room. 

When they came out, they were very giddy, as fast- 
ing persons are whose stomachs are full of alcohol. 
It was a delightful day. A caressing breeze touched 
their faces. 

M. Sauvage, whom the warm air had made quite 
tipsy, halted abruptly. 

"Suppose we go!" 

"Why, where?" 

"Fishing, to be sure." 

"But where?" 

"Why, on our island. The French outposts are 
near Colombes. I know Colonel Dumoulin; they'll 
easily let us pass." 

Morissot quivered with longing. "It's a go. I'm 
with you." And they separated, to get their fishing 
tackle. 

An hour afterward they were walking together along 
the highway. In a little while they came to the villa 
which the colonel was occupying; he smiled at their 
request and consented to humor them. They continued 
their march, provided with a pass-word. 

Soon they left the outposts behind, traversed aban- 
doned Colombes, and found themselves on the edge 



TWO FRIENDS 287 

of the little vineyards that slope toward the Seine. It 
was nearly eleven o'clock. 

Opposite, the village of Argenteuil seemed dead. 
The heights of Orgemont and Sannois towered over 
all the country. The great plain which stretches 
toward Nanterre was absolutely empty, a waste of 
gray soil and leafless cherry-trees. 

M. Sauvage, pointing with his finger to the summit, 
murmured, "The Prussians are up there" ; and a vague 
uneasiness paralyzed the two friends as they beheld 
this desert country. 

The Prussians ! They had never seen them, but for 
a month they had felt them around Paris, pillaging, 
devastating, massacring, invisible and all-powerful. A 
sort of superstitious terror was added to their hatred 
for these unknown and victorious people. 

"What if we should meet some of them?" stam- 
mered Morissot. 

M. Sauvage replied with that Parisian humor which 
nothing can entirely quench, "We'd offer them a fried 
fish." 

But they hesitated to risk themselves in the fields, 
overwhelmed by the stillness of the whole horizon. 

At last M. Sauvage decided. "Come, let's go on 
very cautiously." And they descended into a vine- 
yard, — bent double, crawling, screening themselves 
among the shrubs, eyes busy, ears alert. 

A strip of bare earth remained before they could 
gain the bank of the stream. They began to run, and, 
when they had reached the bank, they hid themselves 
in the dry reeds. 



288 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

Morissot held his ear to the ground to listen for the 
sound of footsteps. He heard nothing. They were 
really alone, entirely alone. 

Reassured, they began to fish. 

Across from them, the deserted Island of Marante 
hid the other shore. The little restaurant was closed, 
and looked as if it had not been entered for years. 

M. Sauvage caught the first gudgeon; Morissot 
caught the second. Thus from moment to moment 
each pulled out his line with a little silver creature 
wriggling at the end, a truly miraculous fish. 

They gently transferred their fish to a finely woven 
net which was soaking in the water at their feet. A 
delicious exaltation seized them, — the joy which one 
feels in rediscovering a pleasure of which one has 
long been deprived. 

The warm sun poured down upon their shoulders; 
they did not listen any more; they did not think of 
anything; they forgot the rest of the world : they were 
fishing. 

Suddenly a heavy sound made the earth shake be- 
neath them. The cannon were beginning to thunder. 

Morissot turned his head, and above the bank he 
saw, far off, the great silhouette of Mont Valerien, 
wearing on its forehead a white aigrette, — a puff of 
vapor which it had just emitted. 

Then a second jet of smoke appeared on the sum- 
mit of the fortress, and a new detonation sounded. 

Others followed, and from time to time the moun- 
tain exhaled its deadly breath, expelling vast milky 



TWO FRIENDS 289 

vapors which rose slowly into the calm sky like a white 
cloud. 

M. Sauvage shrugged his shoulders. "They're at it 
again," said he. 

Morissot, who was watching the feather on his bob 
plunge up and down, was seized with the wrath of the 
peaceful man against the madmen who fought each 
other thus. He growled, "They must be fools to kill 
like that." 

M. Sauvage assented : "They're worse than beasts." 

And M. Morissot, who had just caught a white- 
bait, added: "To think there will always be war as 
long as there, are governments !" 

M. Sauvage stopped him — "The Republic would not 
have declared war. . . ." 

Morissot interrupted : "Under a king you have for- 
eign wars, and under a republic you have civil war." 

And they tranquilly began to argue, passing judg- 
ment on great political problems with the healthy as- 
surance of quiet and shallow men — agreeing on this 
point, that one could never be free. And Mont Vale- 
rien thundered on, demolishing French houses with its 
hail of bullets, crushing human beings, putting an end 
to dreams, to hoped-for happiness, opening, in the 
hearts of girls and mothers over there in other coun- 
tries, wounds that could never be healed. 

"It is life," declared M. Sauvage. 

"Say rather, it is death," laughed Morissot. 

Just then they started with terror, feeling distinctly 
that someone had come up behind them. Turning 
their heads they saw standing at their shoulders four 



2po GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

men, four big men, armed and bearded, clothed like 
servants in livery and wearing flat caps; they were 
covering the two anglers with their rifles. 

The lines fell from the fishermen's hands and began 
to float down the stream. 

In a few seconds the Frenchmen were seized, bound', 
thrown into a boat, and taken to the Island. 

Behind the house which they had supposed de- 
serted, they beheld a score of German soldiers. 

A shaggy giant sitting astride a chair and smoking 
a huge porcelain pipe addressed them in excellent 
French : "Well, gentlemen, have you had good fish- 
ing?" 

A soldier deposited at the feet of the officer the net 
of fish which he had brought with him. The Prussian 
smiled: "Aha! Not bad at all. But we have other 
matters to think of. Listen to me and don't get ex- 
cited. From my point of view, you are two spies 
sent to watch me. I catch you and I shoot you. You 
were pretending to fish, in order to conceal your real 
purpose. You have fallen into my hands — so much 
the worse for you ; it is war. . . . But since you have 
come through the lines, you surely have a pass-word, 
in order to go back again. Give me this pass-word 
and I will let you off." 

The two friends, livid, side by side, kept silence. 
Only a slight, nervous trembling of their hands dis- 
played their agitation. 

The officer began again : "No one will know it; you 
may go back quietly. The secret will remain with you. 
If you refuse, it is instant death. Take your choice." 






TWO FRIENDS 291 

They stood motionless, without opening their lips. 

The Prussian quietly continued, pointing toward the 
stream: "Remember that in five minutes you will be 
at the bottom of the river. In five minutes ! . . . You 
have relatives, I suppose?" 

Mont Valerien thundered on. 

The two fishermen stood silent. The German gave 
some orders in his own tongue. Then he moved his 
chair away, and a dozen men came and placed them- 
selves at twenty paces, their guns in rest. 

The officer spoke: "I give you one minute, not a 
second more." 

He rose brusquely, approached the two Frenchmen, 
took Morissot by the arm and led him a few steps 
away. "Quick ! The pass-word ! Your comrade will 
never know. I will pretend to relent." 

Morissot made no answer. 

The Prussian then led away M. Sauvage and put 
the same question to him. 

M. Sauvage did not reply. 

They found themselves side by side again. 

The officer gave command. The soldiers raised their 
guns. 

The glance of M. Morissot fell upon the net of 
gudgeons lying in the grass at a little distance. 

A ray of sunlight glittered on the wriggling heap 
of fish. He felt faint. In spite of himself his eyes 
filled with tears. He stammered, "Good-bye, Mon- 
sieur Sauvage." 

Sauvage responded, "Good-bye, Monsieur Moris- 
sot." 



292 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

They clasped hands, shaken from head to foot by 
uncontrollable trembling. 

The officer shouted, "Fire !" 

The twelve shots were as only one. 

Sauvage fell on his face like a log. Morissot, who 
was taller, wavered, turned about, and fell across his 
comrade with his face to the sky, a gush of blood 
escaping from his jacket, open at the breast. 

The German gave fresh orders. 

His men dispersed, and then came back with ropes 
and stones, which they attached to the feet of the dead 
Frenchmen. Then they carried them to the bank. 

Mont Valerien did not cease to growl, crowned now 
with an enormous tower of smoke. 

Two soldiers took Morissot by the head and the 
legs; two others seized Sauvage in the same fashion. 
The bodies, swung an instant with force, were thrown 
far out into the stream; they described a curve, then 
plunged upright into the flood, the stones at first 
dragging down their feet. 

The water splashed, bubbled, trembled, and then 
grew calm, the ripples circling to the banks. 

A little blood floated in the water. 

The officer, very calm, remarked in a low voice, "It's 
the fishes' turn now." 

Then he went back toward the house. Suddenly he 
saw the net of gudgeons in the grass. He took them 
up, examined them, smiled, and called out, "Wil- 
helm!" 

A soldier in a white apron ran out. The Prussian, 
tossing him the fish, gave orders: "Have these little 



TWO FRIENDS 293 

fellows fried at once, while they are still alive. That 
will be delicious/' 
Then he began to smoke his pipe again. 



Guy de Maupassant 

Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant, the French 
fiction-writer, was born in 1850. During his early 
manhood he was a clerk in the Department of the 
Navy, and served as a private in the German War. 
A fortunate and perhaps a vital fact in his literary his- 
tory is his association with Flaubert, the incomparable 
master of the French realistic novel. Flaubert, an old 
friend of Maupassant's mother, came often to the 
house, and interested himself in the young man's ef- 
forts to write. It was only after a long and severe 
training from the older man that Maupassant, in 
1880, produced his first successful story, the ugly and 
cynical Tallow Ball (Boule de Suif). This story 
showed all the characteristics of Maupassant's best 
work, — a terrible objective simplicity, condensation, 
keen observation, unhesitating directness, and a pitiless 
exhibition of human motive. In ten years he had 
written as much as Flaubert, with his laborious striv- 
ing for perfection, was able to produce in a lifetime. 
Besides many volumes of short-stories, Maupassant 
wrote four or five novels, of which Peter and John 
{Pierre et Jean) is usually considered the best. In 
1890 he began to show symptoms of insanity; two 
years later he became hopelessly insane. In 1893 ^ e 
died in an asylum. 



2Q4 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

In construction and art, Maupassant's stories are the 
best that have been produced in France, where the 
short-story has achieved remarkable excellence. Mau- 
passant wrote over two hundred brief and concentrated 
tales in most of which the theme is found in human 
selfishness and meanness, or in brutal and inexcusable 
tragedy. The moral gloom of his stories deepened as 
he approached the dissolution of his mental powers. 
These tales are full of wretchedness, crime, and horror, 
— so full, indeed, as to be repellant unless read coolly 
for their technique. In the calm, impersonal, objective 
handling of a story Maupassant was almost incredibly 
skillful. His touch was unerring, his method ine con- 
summation of vividness and directness. One searches 
in vain for any evidence of sympathy or emotion on 
the part of the writer. His work is almost flawless, but 
frigid. In the earlier Russian realists one sees the same 
courageous naturalism, with something more of sym- 
pathy and humanitarianism. In the stories of Maxim 
Gorki (A. M. Pyeshov), a later Russian writer, there is 
much of the same pitilessness, with less of the skill and 
more of the sordidness than there is in Maupassant. 
The dreadful best of Gorki's stories, Twenty-six and 
One, is a close parallel to some of Maupassant's bet- 
ter tales. In America, O. Henry (Sidney Porter) has 
somewhat hastily been dubbed the "Yankee Maupas- 
sant" ; and undoubtedly Porter learned much from the 
French raconteur — what successful modern story-teller 
has not ? 

The Necklace, A Piece of String, Happiness, and 
Mother Sauvage {La Mere Sanvage) are some of 



TWO FRIENDS 295 

Maupassant's most perfect stones, all of them very 
well known. It is to be noted that the Italian writer, 
D'Annunzio, has frankly and rather feebly imitated 
A Piece of String in The End of Candia; and Tchek- 
hov in Russia has used the same motif in The Slan- 
derer. Henry James has, according to his own testi- 
mony, inverted The Necklace in his short-story, Paste. 

Two Friends {Deux Amis), translated here, is a 
painful but incontestably good story which reveals all 
the technical virtues of which Maupassant was master. 

The student should read many of Maupassant's 
stories, in French if possible. For translations, The 
Odd Number is a good collection. 

bibliography 

Guy de Maupassant : 

Maynial, Edouard: La Vie et l'Oeuvre de Guy de 

Maupassant. 
Francois : Recollections of Guy de Maupassant, by his 

valet. 
James, Henry: Partial Portraits. 
James, Henry : Introduction to The Odd Number. 
Ives, G. B.: Introduction to Guy de Maupassant, in 

Little French Masterpieces. 
Current Literature, 42 : 636. 
Bookman, 25 : 291 ; 18 : 171. 

Stories by Maupassant : 
A Coward. 
The Necklace. 
A Piece of String. 
Happiness. 



2q6 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

Mother Sauvage (La Mere Sauvage). 

The Horla. 

On the River. 

Little Soldier. 

Miss Harriet. 

The Confession. 

The Wreck. 

The Wolf. 

A Family Affair. 

Bellflower (Clochette). 

Fear. 

My Uncle Jules. 



AGED FOLK* 

By Alphonse Daudet 

"A letter, Pere Azan?" 

"Yes, monsieur; and it comes from Paris." 

He was quite proud, that worthy old Azan, that it 
came from Paris. I was not. Something told me that 
the Parisian missive from the Rue Jean-Jacques, drop- 
ping thus upon my table unexpectedly, and so early in 
the morning, would make me lose my whole day. I 
was not mistaken, — and you shall see why. 

"You must do me a service, my friend," said the 
letter. "Close your mill for a day, and go to Eygui- 
eres. Eyguieres is a large village three or four leagues 
from your mill, — a pleasant walk. When you get 
there, ask for the Orphans' Convent. Enter without 
knocking — the door is always open — and, as you en- 
ter, call out very loud : 'Good day, worthy people ! I 
am a friend of Maurice !' On which you will see two 
little old persons — oh !but old, old, ever so old — stretch- 
ing out their hands to you from their big armchairs ; 
and you are to kiss them for me, with all your heart, 
as if they were yours, your own friends. Then you 
will talk. They will talk to you of me, and nothing 

* Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. Used by per- 
mission of Little, Brown and Company, Boston. 

297 



298 ALPHUNSE DAUDET 

else; they will say a lot of foolish things, which you 
are to listen to without laughing. You won't laugh, 
will you? They are my grandparents; two beings 
whose very life I am, and who have not seen me these 
ten years. . . . Ten years — a long time! But how 
can I help it? Paris clutches me. And they, they are 
so old that if they came to see me they would break 
to bits on the way. . . . Happily, you are there, my 
dear miller, and, in kissing you, these poor old people 
will fancy they are kissing me. I have so often told 
them about you, and of the good friendship that. . . ." 

The devil take good friendship! Just this very 
morning, when the weather is so beautiful! But not 
at all fit to tramp along the roads; too much mistral, 
too much sun — a regular Provence day. When that 
cursed letter came I had just picked out my shelter 
between two rocks, where I dreamed of staying all day 
like a lizard, drinking light and listening to the song 
of the pines. Well, I could not help myself. I shut 
up the mill, grumbling, and hid the key. My stick, 
my pipe, and off I went. 

I reached Eyguieres in about two hours. The vil- 
lage was deserted ; everybody was in the fields. From 
the elms in the courtyards, white with dust, the grass- 
hoppers were screaming. To be sure, in the square 
before the mayor's office, a donkey was sunning him- 
self, and a flock of pigeons were dabbling in the foun- 
tain before the church, but no one able to show me 
the Orphans' Convent. Happily, an old witch sud- 
denly appeared, crouching and knitting in the angle 



AGED FOLK 299 

of her doorway. I told her what I was looking for, 
and, as she was a witch of very great power, she had 
only to raise her distaff and behold ! the Orphans' Con- 
vent rose up before me. It was a large, sullen, black 
house, proud of exhibiting above its arched portal an 
old cross of red freestone with Latin around it. Be- 
side this house I saw another, very small; gray shut- 
ters, garden behind it. I knew it directly, and I en- 
tered without knocking. 

All my life I shall remember that long, cool, quiet 
corridor, the walls rose-tinted, the little garden quiv- 
ering at the other end, seen through a thin blind. It 
seemed to me that I was entering the house of some old 
bailiff of the olden time of Sedaine. At the end of the 
passage, on the left, through a half-opened door, I 
heard the tick-tack of a large clock and the voice of a 
child — a child in school — who was reading aloud, and 
pausing at each syllable : "Then — Saint — I-re-ne-us — 
cri-ed — out — I — am — the — wheat — of — the — Lord — I 
must — be — ground — by — the — teeth — of — these an-i- 
mals.' , I softly approached the door and looked in. 

In the quiet half-light of a little room an old, old 
man with rosy cheeks, wrinkled to the tips of his 
fingers, sat sleeping in a chair, his mouth open, his 
hands on his knees. At his feet a little girl dressed in 
blue — with a great cape and a linen cap, the orphans' 
costume — was reading the life of Saint Irenaeus in a 
book that was bigger than herself. The reading had 
operated miraculously on the entire household. The 
old man slept in his chair, the flies on the ceiling, the 
canaries in their cage at the window; and the great 



300 ALPHONSE DAUDET 

clock snored : tick-tack, tick-tack. Nothing was awake 
in the room but a broad band of light which came, 
straight and white, between the closed shutters, full 
of lively sparkles and microscopic whirlings. 

Amid this general somnolence, the child went 
gravely on with her reading : 

"Im-me-di-ate-ly — two — li-ons — dart-ed — up-on — 
him — and — ate — him — up." At this moment I en- 
tered the room. The lions of Saint Irenseus, darting 
into the room, could not have produced greater stupe- 
faction. A regular stage effect! The little one gave 
a cry, the big book fell, the flies and the canaries woke, 
the clock struck, the old man started up, quite fright- 
ened, and I myself, being rather troubled, stopped 
short on the sill of the door, and called out very loud: 
"Good day, worthy people! I am Maurice's friend." 

Oh, then! if you had only seen him, that old man, 
if you had only seen how he came to me with out- 
stretched arms, embracing me, pressing my hands, and 
wandering about the room, crying out : 

"Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu I" 

All the wrinkles of his face were laughing. He was 
red; he stuttered: 

"Ah! monsieur — ah! monsieur." 

Then he went to the back of the room and called : 

"Mamette!" 

A door opened, a trot of mice in the corridor — it 
was Mamette. Nothing prettier than that little old 
woman with her mob-cap, her brown gown, and the 
embroidered handkerchief which she held in her hand 
in the olden fashion. Most affecting thing ! The two 



AGED FOLK 301 

were like each other. With a false front and yellow 
bows to his cap, he too might be called Mamette. Only, 
the real Mamette must have wept a great deal in her 
life, for she was even more wrinkled than he. Like 
him, she too had an orphan with her, a little nurse in 
a blue cape who never left her; and to see these old 
people protected by those orphans was indeed the most 
touching thing you can imagine. 

On entering, Mamette began to make me a deep 
courtesy, but a word of the old man stopped her in the 
middle of it: 

"A friend of Maurice." 

Instantly she trembled, she wept, dropped her hand- 
kerchief, grew red, very red, redder than he. Those 
aged folk, who have hardly a drop of blood in their 
veins, how it flies to their faces at the least emotion! 

"Quick, quick! a chair," said the old lady to her 
little girl. 

"Open the shutters," said the old man to his. 

Then, taking me each by a hand, they led me, trot- 
ting along, to the window, the better to see me. The 
armchairs were placed; I sat between the two on a 
stool, the little Blues behind us, and the questioning 
began : 

"How is he? What is he doing? Why doesn't he 
come ? Is he happy ?" 

Patati-patata ! and so for two hours. 

I answered as best I could all their questions, giving 
such details about my friend as I knew, and boldly 
inventing others that I did not know; being careful to 
avoid admitting that I had never noticed whether his 



302 ALPHONSE DAUDET 

windows closed tightly, and what colored paper he had 
on his wall. 

'The paper of his bedroom? Blue, madam, light 
blue, with garlands of flowers." 

"Really!" said the old lady, much affected; then she 
added, turning to her husband, "He is such a dear 
lad!" 

"Yes, yes, a dear lad," said the other with enthu- 
siasm. 

And all the time that I was speaking they kept up be- 
tween them little nods and sly laughs and winks, and 
knowing looks ; or else the old man came closer to say 
in my ear : 

"Speak louder! She is a little hard of hearing." 

And she on her side : 

"A little louder if you please. He doesn't hear very 
well." 

Then I raised my voice and both of them thanked 
me with a smile ; and in those faded smiles, — bending 
toward me, seeking in the depths of my eyes the im- 
age of their Maurice, — I was, myself, quite moved to 
see that image vague, veiled, almost imperceptible, as 
if I beheld my friend smiling to me from afar through 
a mist. 

Suddenly the old man sat upright in his chair. 

"I have just thought, Mamette, — perhaps he has not 
breakfasted !" 

And Mamette, distressed, throws up her arms. 

"Not breakfasted! Oh, heavens!" 

I thought they were still talking of Maurice, and 
I was about to say that that worthy lad never waited 



AGED FOLK 303 

later than noon for his breakfast. But no, it was of 
me they were thinking; and it was indeed a sight to 
see their commotion when I had to own that I was 
still fasting. 

"Quick! set the table, little Blues! That table in 
the middle of the room — the Sunday cloth — the flow- 
ered plates. And no laughing, if you please. Make 
haste, make haste !" 

And haste they made. Only time to break three 
plates and breakfast was served. 

"A good little breakfast," said Mamette, leading me 
to the table. "Only, you must eat it alone. We have 
eaten already." 

Poor old people ! At whatever hour you took them 
they had "eaten already." 

Mamette's good little breakfast was a cup of milk, 
dates, and a barquette, a kind of shortcake, no doubt 
enough to feed her canaries for a week; and to think 
that I, alone, I ate up all their provisions! I felt the 
indignation around the table. The little Blues whis- 
pered and nudged each other; and those canaries in 
their cage, — I knew they were saying : "Oh ! that mon- 
sieur, he is eating up the whole of the barquette!" 

I did eat it all, truly, almost without perceiving that 
I did so, preoccupied as I was by looking round that 
bright and placid room where floated, as it were, the 
fragrance of things ancient. Especially noticeable were 
two little beds from which I could not detach my eyes. 
Those beds, almost two cradles, I pictured them in 
the morning at dawn, still enclosed within their great 



304 ALPHONSE DAUDET 

fringed curtains. Three o'clock strikes. That is the 
hour when old people wake. 

"Are you asleep, Mamette?" 

"No, my friend." 

"Isn't Maurice a fine lad?" 

"Yes, yes, a fine lad." 

And from that I imagined a long conversation by 
merely looking at the little beds of the two old people, 
standing side by side. 

During this time a terrible drama was going on at 
the other end of the room before a closet. It con- 
cerned reaching up to the top shelf for a certain bottle 
of brandied cherries which had awaited Maurice's re- 
turn for the last ten years. The old people now pro- 
posed to open it for me. In spite of Mamette's sup- 
plications, the husband was determined to get the cher- 
ries himself, and, mounted on a chair, to the terror of 
his wife, he was striving to reach them. You can see 
the scene from here: The old man trembling on the 
tips of his toes, the little Blues clinging to his chair, 
Mamette behind him, breathless, her arms extended, 
and, pervading all, the slight perfume of bergamot 
exhaled from the open closet, and the great piles of 
unbleached linen therein contained. It was charming. 

At last, after many efforts, they succeeded in get- 
ting it from the closet, that famous bottle, and with it 
an old silver cup, Maurice's cup when he was little. 
This they filled with cherries to the brim — Maurice 
was so fond of cherries! And while the old man 
served them he whispered in my ear as if his mouth 
watered, — 



AGED FOLK 305 

"You are very lucky, you, to be the one to eat them. 
My wife put them up. You'll taste something good." 

Alas! his wife had put them up, but she had forgot- 
ten to sweeten them. They were atrocious, your cher- 
ries, my poor Mamette — but that did not prevent me 
from eating them all without blinking. 

The meal over, I rose to take leave of my hosts. 
They would fain have kept me longer to talk of that 
dear lad, but the day was shortening, the mill was 
far, and I had to go. 

The old man rose when I did. 

"Mamette, my coat; I will accompany him as far 
as the square." 

I felt very sure that in her heart Mamette thought 
it too cool for the old man to be out, but she did not 
show it. Only, as she helped him to put his arms into 
the sleeves of his coat, a handsome snuff-colored coat 
with mother-of-pearl buttons, I heard the dear creature 
say to him softly : 

"You won't be late, will you ?" 

And he, with a roguish air, — 

"Hey! hey! I don't know — perhaps not." 

Thereupon they looked at each other, laughing, and 
the little Blues laughed to see them laugh, and the 
canaries laughed too, in their cage, after their fashion. 
Between ourselves, I think the smell of those cherries 
had made them all a little tipsy. 

Daylight was fading as we left the house, grand- 
papa and I. A little Blue followed him at a distance 
to bring him back ; but he did not see her, and seemed 



306 ALPHONSE DAUDET 

quite proud to walk along, arm in arm with me, like 
a man. Mamette, beaming, watched us from the sill 
of her door with pretty little nods of her head, that 
seemed to say: 

"See there! my poor man, he can still walk about!" 



Alphonse Daudet 

It was in the hands of Alphonse Daudet that the 
French short-story attained its greatest perfection of 
style and finish. Daudet was born at Nimes, where 
he lived for the first nine years of his life. The family 
fortunes were at a low ebb, but the boy found suffi- 
cient solace in his plays and sports. It was during this 
period that he perpetrated the hoax which he has re- 
corded in his amusing sketch, The Pope Is Dead. 
Daudet pere, who was a silk manufacturer, found his 
business growing more and more insecure, until, after 
a removal to Lyons, he was forced to declare himself a 
bankrupt. "Fears and tears — that is of what my youth 
consisted," wrote Alphonse Daudet in his later life. 
The family, after the catastrophe, was entirely dis- 
rupted, each member trying to earn a living for him- 
self. Alphonse became an usher in the College of 
Alais; what he suffered there is faithfully told in Le 
Petit Chose. Humiliated and desperate, he decided, 
at the end of some months, to follow his elder brother 
to Paris. The two young men lived in a sparsely 
furnished garret, enduring terrible hardships of cold 
and hunger; but they still clung tenaciously to their 



AGED FOLK 307 

ambition to write. Alphonse was able, after a time, 
to earn a meagre living by contributing to Le Figaro. 

In 1858 his poems, Les Amoureuses, brought 
Daudet to the notice of the Empress Eugenie, who had 
him appointed to a secretaryship to which a good sal- 
ary was attached. His mode of living now became 
greatly altered, and he gradually allied himself with 
some of the most brilliant members of the literary 
profession in Paris. He continued to contribute to 
Le Figaro, and wrote some one-act plays, several of 
which were received with high favor. On various 
occasions he was forced to go to the South for his 
health, and it was on these trips that he gathered the 
material for his Tartarin series of tales. In 1866 
his Lettres de mon Moulin appeared in Paris news- 
papers. Daudet enlisted in the German War and wit- 
nessed the siege of Paris, afterward using in his stories 
many scenes of the "terrible year." The Contes du 
Lundi (Monday Tales), a group of. short-stories, 
came out in 1873. From 1874 to 1896 Daudet was 
engaged chiefly in writing novels, the best of which 
are Kings in Exile (Les Rois in Exil), Numa 
Roumestan, The Nabob, and Jack. It is stated on 
good authority that for many years his annual income 
was not less than $20,000. He died in 1897. 

All that Daudet wrote he dwelt upon with laborious 
care; he seldom permitted anything to leave his hand 
until it was polished to the last degree. Nevertheless, 
he had the secret of preserving simplicity in spite of a 
slavelike devotion to perfection. His "miniature mas- 
terpieces" are more impossible of translation than the 



308 ALPHONSE DAUDET 

work of almost any other French author, so much 
do they depend for their excellence upon diction and 
turn of phrase. Aged Folk is from Letters From 
My Mill 

bibliography 
Alphonse Daudet: 

Sherard, R. H. : Alphonse Daudet. 

Ratti, Gino A. : Les Idees Morales et Litteraires 

d'Alphonse Daudet. 
James, Henry : Partial Portraits, pp. 195-239. 
Wells, B. W. : A Century of French Fiction, pp. 305- 
325. 

Stories by Daudet: 
The Last Class. 

The Elixir of the Reverend Father Gaucher. 
The Cure of Cucugnan. 
The Pope's Mule. 
The Death of the Dauphin. 
The Two Inns. 
The Game of Billiards. 
The Child Spy. 
Mothers. 
The Little Pies. 
The Pope Is Dead. 
The Siege of Berlin. 
The Arlesian Woman. 
The Three Low Masses. 



TO BUILD A FIRE* 

By Jack London 

Day had broken cold and gray, exceedingly cold and 
gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon 
trail and climbed the high earth bank, where a dim 
and little-traveled trail led eastward through the fat 
spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused 
for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by 
looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was 
no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud 
in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed 
an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle 
gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to 
the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the 
man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been 
days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few 
more days must pass before that cheerful orb, due 
south, would just peep above the skyline and dip imme- 
diately from view. 

The man flung a look back along the way he had 
come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under 
three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many 
feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle 

* Printed by permission of the author. Copyright by the 
Macmillan Company. 

309 



310 JACK LONDON 

undulations where the ice-jams of the freeze-up had 
formed. North and south, as far as his eye could 
see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hair-line 
that curved and twisted from around the spruce-cov- 
ered island to the south, and that curved and twisted 
away into the north, where it disappeared behind an- 
other spruce-covered island. This dark hair-line was 
the trail — the main trail — that led south five hundred 
miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and 
that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on 
to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally 
to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and 
half a thousand more. 

But all this — the mysterious, far-reaching hair-line 
trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous 
cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all — 
made no impression on the man. It was not because 
he was long used to it. He was a newcomer in the 
land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The 
trouble with him was that he was without imagina- 
tion. He was quick and alert in the things of life, 
but only in the things, and not in the significances. 
Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of 
frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and 
uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him 
to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temper- 
ature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to 
live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; 
and from there on it did not lead him to the conjec- 
tural field of immortality and man's place in the uni- 
verse. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of 



TO BUILD A FIRE 311 

frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by 
the use of mittens, earflaps, warm moccasins, and thick 
socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just 
precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should 
be anything more to it than that was a thought that 
never entered his head. 

As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There 
was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He 
spat again. And again, in the air, before it could 
fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that 
at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this 
spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was 
colder than fifty below — how much colder he did not 
know. But the temperature did not matter. He was 
bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson 
Creek, where the boys were already. They had come 
over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, 
while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at 
the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from 
the islands' in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by 
six o'clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys 
would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot sup- 
per would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his 
hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. 
It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handker- 
chief and lying against the naked skin. It was the 
only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He 
smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those 
biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, 
and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon. 

He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The 



312 JACK LONDON 

trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the 
last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was 
without a sled, traveling light. In fact, he carried 
nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. 
He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly 
was cold, he concluded, as he rubbed his numb nose 
and cheek bones with his mittened hand. He was a 
warm-whiskered man, but the hair on his face did not 
protect the high cheek bones and the eager nose that 
thrust itself aggressively into the frosty air. 

At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, 
the proper wolf-dog, gray-coated and without any 
visible or temperamental difference from its brother, 
the wild wolf. The animal was depressed by the tre- 
mendous cold. It knew that it was no time for travel- 
ing. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to 
the man by the man's judgment. In reality, it was 
not merely colder than fifty below zero ; it was colder 
than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy- 
five below zero. Since the freezing point is thirty-two 
above zero, it meant that one hundred and seven de- 
grees of frost obtained. The dog did not know any- 
thing about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there 
was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold 
such as was in the man's brain. But the brute had 
its instinct. It experienced a vague but menacing ap- 
prehension that subdued it and made it slink along at 
the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every 
unwonted movement of the man, as if expecting him to 
go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build 
a fire. The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, 



TO BUILD A FIRE 313 

or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its 
warmth away from the air. 

The frozen moisture of its breathing had settled on 
its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were 
its jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crys- 
talled breath. The man's red beard and mustache were 
likewise frosted, but more solidly, the deposit taking 
the form of ice and increasing with every warm, moist 
breath he exhaled. Also, the man was chewing to- 
bacco, and the muzzle of ice held his lips so rigidly 
that he was unable to clear his chin when he expelled 
the juice. The result was that a crystal beard of 
the color and solidity of amber was increasing its 
length on his chin. If he fell down it would shat- 
ter itself, like glass, into brittle fragments. But he 
did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty all 
tobacco-chewers paid in that country, and he had been 
out before in two cold snaps. They had not been so 
cold as this, he knew, but by the spirit thermometer 
at Sixty Mile he knew they had been registered at 
fifty below and at fifty-five. 

He held on through the level stretch of woods for 
several miles, crossed a wide flat of nigger-heads, and 
dropped down a bank to the frozen bed of a small 
stream. This was Henderson Creek, and he knew 
he was ten miles from the forks. He looked at his 
watch. It was ten o'clock. He was making four 
miles an hour, and he calculated that he would arrive 
at the forks at half-past twelve. He decided to cele- 
brate that event by eating his lunch there. 

The dog dropped' in again at his heels, with a tail 



314 JACK LONDON 

drooping discouragement, as the man swung along the 
creek bed. The furrow of the old sled trail was 
plainly visible, but a dozen inches of snow covered 
the marks of the last runners. In a month no man 
had come up or down that silent creek. The man 
held steadily on. He was not much given to think- 
ing, and just then particularly he had nothing to think 
about save that he would eat lunch at the forks and 
that at six o'clock he would be in camp with the boys. 
There was nobody to talk to; and, had there been, 
speech would have been impossible because of the 
ice muzzle on his mouth. So he continued monoton- 
ously to chew tobacco and to increase the length of his 
amber beard. 

Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that 
it was very cold and that he had never experienced 
such cold. As he walked along he rubbed his cheek 
bones and nose with the back of his mittened hand. 
He did this automatically, now and again changing 
hands. But rub as he would, the instant he stopped 
his cheek bones went numb, and the following instant 
the end of his nose went numb. He was sure to frost 
his cheeks; he knew that, and experienced a pang of 
regret that he had not devised a nose strap of the sort 
Bud wore in cold snaps. Such a strap passed across 
the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn't 
matter much, after all. What were frosted cheeks? 
A bit painful, that was all; they were never serious. 

Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was 
keenly observant, and he noticed the changes in the 
creek, the curves and bends and timber- jams, and al- 



TO BUILD A FIRE 315 

ways he sharply noted where he placed his feet. Once, 
coming around a bend, he shied abruptly, like a 
startled horse, curved away from the place where he 
had been walking, and retreated several paces back 
along the trail. The creek, he knew, was frozen clear 
to the bottom, — no creek could contain water in that 
arctic winter, — but he knew also that there were 
springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran 
along under the snow and on top of the ice of the 
creek. He knew that the coldest snaps never froze 
these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They 
were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow 
that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Some- 
times a skin of ice half an inch thick covered them, 
and in turn was covered by the snow. Sometimes 
there were alternate layers of water and ice skin, so 
that when one broke through he kept on breaking 
through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the 
waist. 

That was why he had shied in such panic. He had 
felt the give under his feet and heard the crackle of 
a snow-hidden ice skin. And to get his feet wet in 
such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the 
very least it meant delay, for he would be forced to 
stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare 
his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins. He 
stood and studied the creek bed and its banks, and 
decided that the flow of water came from the right. 
He reflected a while, rubbing his nose and cheeks, 
then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and test- 
ing the footing for each step. Once clear of the 



316 JACK LONDON 

danger, he took a fresh chew of tobacco and swung 
along at his four-mile gait. 

In the course of the next two hours he came upon 
several similar traps. Usually the snow above the 
hidden pools had a sunken, candied appearance that 
advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had 
a close call; and once, suspecting danger, he com- 
pelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not 
want to go. It hung back until the man shoved it 
forward, and then it went quickly across the white, 
unbroken surface. Suddenly it broke through, flound- 
ered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It 
had wet its forefeet and legs, and almost immediately 
the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made 
quick efforts to lick the ice off its legs, then dropped 
down in the snow and began to bite out the ice that 
had formed between the toes. This was a matter of 
instinct. To permit the ice to remain would mean 
sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed 
the mysterious prompting that arose from the deep 
crypts of its being. But the man knew, having 
achieved a judgment on the subject, and he removed 
the mitten from his right hand and helped tear out 
the ice particles. He did not expose his fingers more 
than a minute, and was astonished at the swift numb- 
ness that smote them. It certainly was cold. He 
pulled on the mitten hastily, and beat the hand sav- 
agely across his chest. 

At twelve o'clock the day was at its brightest. Yet 
the sun was too far south on its winter journey to 
clear the horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened 



TO BUILD A FIRE 317 

between it and Henderson Creek, where the man 
walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no shadow. 
At half-past twelve,' to the minute, he arrived at the 
forks of the creek. He was pleased at the speed he had 
made. If he kept it up, he would certainly be with 
the boys by six. He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt 
and drew forth his lunch. The action consumed no 
more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief mo- 
ment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. 
He did not put the mitten on, but, instead, struck the 
fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then 
he sat down on a snow-covered log to eat. The sting 
that followed upon the striking of his fingers against 
his leg ceased so quickly that he was startled. He had 
had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck 
the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mit- 
ten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating. 
He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice muzzle pre- 
vented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw 
out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as he 
chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the ex- 
posed fingers. Also he noted that the stinging which 
had first come to his toes when he sat down was 
already passing away. He wondered whether the toes 
were warm or numb. He moved them inside the moc- 
casins and decided that they were numb. 

He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. 
He was a bit frightened. He stamped up and down 
until the stinging returned into the feet. It certainly 
was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur 
Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it 



318 JACK LONDON 

sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed 
at him at the time! That showed one must not be 
too sure of things. There was no mistake about it, 
it was cold. He strode up and down, stamping his 
feet and threshing his arms, until reassured by the 
returning warmth. Then he got out matches and 
proceeded to make a fire. From the undergrowth, 
where high water of the previous spring had lodged a 
supply of seasoned twigs, he got his firewood. Work- 
ing carefully from a small beginning, he soon had a 
roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his 
face and in the protection of which he ate his biscuits. 
For the moment the cold of space was outwitted. The 
dog took satisfaction in the fire, stretching out close 
enough for warmth and far enough away to escape 
being singed. 

When the man had finished, he filled his pipe and 
took his comfortable time over a smoke. Then he 
pulled on his mittens, settled the ear-flaps of his cap 
firmly about his ears, and took the creek trail up the 
left fork. The dog was disappointed and yearned back 
toward the fire. This man did not know cold. Pos- 
sibly all the generations of his ancestry had been ignor- 
ant of cold, of real cold, of cold one hundred and seven 
degrees below freezing point. But the dog knew; all 
its ancestry knew, and it had inherited the knowledge. 
And it knew that it was not good to walk abroad in 
such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug in a 
hole in the snow and wait for a curtain of cloud to 
be drawn across the face of outer space whence this 
cold came. On the other hand, there was no keen 



TO BUILD A FIRE 319 

intimacy between the dog and the man. The one was 
the toil-slave of the other, and the only caresses it had 
ever received were the caresses of the whip-lash and 
of harsh and menacing throat sounds that threatened 
the whip-lash. So the dog made no effort to com- 
municate its apprehension to the man. It was not 
concerned in the welfare of the man; it was for its 
own sake that it yearned back toward the fire. But 
the man whistled, and spoke to it with the sound of 
whip-lashes, and the dog swung in at the man's heels 
and followed after. 

The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to 
start a new amber beard. Also, his moist breath 
quickly powdered with white his mustache, eyebrows, 
and lashes. There did not seem to be so many springs 
on the left fork of the Henderson, and for half an hour 
the man saw no signs of any. And then it hap- 
pened. At a place where there were no signs, where 
the soft, unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity 
beneath, the man broke through. It was not deep. 
He wet himself halfway to the knees before he flound- 
ered out to the firm crust. 

He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had 
hoped to get into camp with the boys at six o'clock, 
and this would delay him an hour, for he would have 
to build a fire and dry out his foot-gear. This was 
imperative at that low temperature — he knew that 
much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he 
climbed. On top, tangled in the underbrush about 
the trunks of several small spruce trees, was a high- 
water deposit of dry fire-wood — sticks and twigs, prin- 



320 JACK LONDON 

cipally, but also larger portions of seasoned branches 
and fine, dry, last year's grasses. He threw down 
several large pieces on top of the snow. This served 
for a foundation and prevented the young flame from 
drowning itself in the snow it otherwise would melt. 
The flame he got by touching a match to a small shred 
of birch-bark that he took from his pocket. This 
burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on 
the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of 
dry grass and with the tiniest dry twigs. 

He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of 
his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew stronger, he 
increased the size of the twigs with which he fed it. 
He squatted in the snow, pulling the twigs out from 
their entanglement in the brush and feeding directly 
to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. When 
it is seventy-five below zero a man must not fail in his 
first attempt to build a fire — that is, if his feet are 
wet. If his feet are dry, and he fails, he can run 
along the trail for half a mile and restore his circula- 
tion. But the circulation of wet and freezing feet 
cannot be restored by running when it is seventy-five 
below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet feet will 
freeze the harder. 

All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur 
Creek had told him about it the previous fall, and 
now he was appreciating the advice. Already all sen- 
sation had gone out of his feet. To build the fire 
he had been forced to remove his mittens, and the 
fingers had quickly gone numb. His pace of four 
miles an hour had kept his heart pumping blood to the 



TO BUILD A FIRE 321 

surface of his body and to all the extremities. But 
the instant he stopped, the action of the pump eased 
down. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip 
of the planet, and he, being on that unprotected tip, 
received the full force of the blow. The blood of 
his body recoiled before it. The blood was alive, like 
the dog, and like the dog it wanted to hide away and 
cover itself up from the fearful cold. So long as he 
walked four miles an hour, he pumped that blood, 
willy-nilly, to the surface ; but now it ebbed away and 
sank down into the recesses of his body. The ex- 
tremities were the first to feel its absence. His wet 
feet froze the faster, and his exposed fingers numbed 
the faster, though they had not yet begun to freeze. 
Nose and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin 
ot all his body chilled as it lost its blood. 

But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would 
be only touched by the frost, for the fire was begin- 
ning to burn with strength. He was feeding it with 
twigs the size of his finger. In another minute he 
would be able to feed it with branches the size of his 
wrist, and then he could remove his wet foot-gear, and, 
while it dried, he could keep his naked feet warm by 
the fire, rubbing them at first, of course, with snow. 
The fire was a success. He was safe. He remem- 
bered the advice of the old-timer on Sulphur Creek, 
and smiled. The old-timer had been very serious in 
laying down the law that no man must travel alone in 
the Klondike after fifty below. Well, here he was; he 
had had the accident ; he was alone ; and he had saved 
himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, 



322 JACK LONDON 

some of them, he thought. All a man had to do was 
to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who 
was a man could travel alone. But it was surprising 
the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were 
freezing. And he had not thought his fingers could 
go lifeless in so short a time. Lifeless they were, for 
he could scarcely make them move together to grip a 
twig, and they seemed remote from his body and from 
him. When he touched a twig he had to look and see 
whether or not he had hold of it. The wires were 
pretty well down between him and his finger-ends. 

All of which counted for little. There was the fire, 
snapping and crackling and promising life with every 
dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. 
They were coated with ice; the thick German socks 
were like sheaths of iron halfway to the knees; and 
the moccasin strings were like rods of steel all twisted 
and knotted as by some conflagration. For a moment 
he tugged with his numb fingers, then, realizing the 
folly of it, he drew his sheath-knife. 

But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It 
was his own fault, or, rather, his mistake. He should 
not have built the fire under the spruce tree. He 
should have built it in the open. But it had been 
easier to pull the twigs from the brush and drop them 
directly on the fire. Now the tree under which he 
had done this carried a weight of snow on its boughs. 
No wind had blown for weeks, and each bough was 
fully freighted. Each time he had pulled a twig he 
had communicated a slight agitation to the tree — an 
imperceptible agitation, so far as he was concerned, but 



TO BUILD A FIRE 323 

an agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. 
High up in the tree one bough capsized its load of 
snow. This fell on the boughs beneath, capsizing them. 
This process continued, spreading out and involving 
the whole tree. It grew like an avalanche, and it de- 
scended without warning upon the man and the fire, 
and the fire was blotted out! Where it had burned 
was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow. 

The man was shocked. It was as though he had 
just heard his own sentence of death. For a moment 
he sat and stared at the spot wriere the fire had been. 
Then he grew very calm. Perhaps the old-timer on 
Sulphur Creek was right. If he had only had a trail- 
mate he would have been in no danger now. The 
trail-mate could have built the fire. Well, it was up 
to him to build the fire over again, and this second 
time there must be no failure. Even if he succeeded, 
he would most likely lose some toes. His feet must 
be badly frozen by now, and there would be some time 
before the second fire was ready. 

Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and 
think them. He was busy all the time they were pass- 
ing through his mind. He made a new foundation for 
a fire, this time in the open, where no treacherous tree 
could blot it out. Next he gathered dry grasses and 
tiny twigs from the high-water flotsam. He could 
not bring his fingers together to pull them out, but he 
was able to gather them by the handful. In this way 
he got many rotten twigs and bits of green moss that 
were undesirable, but it was the best he could do. He 
worked methodically, even collecting an armful of the 



324 JACK LONDON 

larger branches to be used later when the fire gathered 
strength. And all the while the dog sat and watched 
him, a certain yearning wistfulness in its eyes, for 
it looked upon him as the fire-provider, and the fire 
was slow in coming. 

When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket 
for a second piece of birch-bark. He knew the bark 
was there, and, though he could not feel it with his 
fingers, he could hear its crisp rustling as he fumbled 
for it. Try as he would, he could not clutch hold of 
it. And all the time, in his consciousness, was the 
knowledge that each instant his feet were freezing. 
This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he 
fought against it and kept calm. He pulled on his 
mittens with his teeth, and threshed his arms back 
and forth, beating his hands with all his might against 
his sides. He did this sitting down, and he stood 
up to do it ; and all the while the dog sat in the snow, 
its wolf -brush of a tail curled around warmly over 
its forefeet, its sharp wolf ears pricked forward in- 
tently as it watched the man. And the man, as he beat 
and threshed with his arms and hands, felt a great 
surge of envy as he regarded the creature that was 
warm and secure in its natural covering. 

After a time he was aware of the first far-away 
signals of sensation in his beaten fingers. The faint 
tingling grew stronger till it evolved into a stinging 
ache that was excruciating, but which the man hailed 
with satisfaction. He stripped the mitten from his 
right hand and fetched forth the birch-bark. The ex- 
posed fingers were quickly going numb again. Next 



TO BUILD A FIRE 325 

he brought out his bunch of sulphur matches. But 
the tremendous cold had already driven the life out 
of his fingers. In his effort to separate one match 
from the others, the whole bunch fell in the snow. He 
tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead 
fingers could neither touch nor clutch. He was very 
careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet, 
and nose, and cheeks, out of his mind, devoting his 
whole soul to the matches. He watched, using the 
sense of vision in place of that of touch, and when 
he saw his fingers on each side the bunch, he closed 
them — that is, he willed to close them, for the wires 
were down, and the fingers did not obey. He pulled 
the mitten on the right hand, and beat it fiercely against 
his knee. Then, with both mittened hands, he scooped 
the bunch of matches, along with much snow, into his 
lap. Yet he was no better off. 

After some manipulation he managed to get the 
bunch between the heels of his mittened hands. In 
this fashion he carried it to his mouth. The ice 
crackled and snapped when by a violent effort he 
opened his mouth. He drew the lower jaw in, curled 
the upper lip out of the way, and scraped the bunch 
with his upper teeth in order to separate a match. He 
succeeded in getting one, which he dropped on his 
lap. He was no better off. He could not pick it up. 
Then he devised a way. He picked it up in his teeth 
and scratched it on his leg. Twenty times he scratched 
before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamed he 
held it with his teeth to the birch-bark. But the burn- 
ing brimstone went up his nostrils and into his lungs, 



326 JACK LONDON 

causing him to cough spasmodically. The match fell 
into the snow and went out. 

The old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right, he 
thought in the moment of controlled despair that en- 
sued : after fifty below, a man should travel with a 
partner. He beat his hands, but failed in exciting any 
sensation. Suddenly he bared both hands, removing 
the mittens with his teeth. He caught the whole bunch 
between the heels of his hands. His arm muscles, not 
being frozen, enabled him to press the hand heels 
tightly against the matches. Then he scratched the 
bunch along his leg. It flared into flame, seventy sul- 
phur matches at once! There was no wind to blow 
them out. He kept his head to one side to escape the 
strangling fumes, and held the blazing bunch to the 
birch-bark. As he so held it, he became aware of sen- 
sation in his hand. His flesh was burning. He could 
smell it. Deep down below the surface he could feel 
it. The sensation developed into pain that grew acute. 
And still he endured it, holding the flame of the 
matches clumsily to the bark that would not light read- 
ily because his own burning hands were in the way, 
absorbing most of the flame. 

At last, when he could endure no more, he jerked 
his hands apart. The blazing matches fell sizzling into 
the snow, but the birch-bark was alight. He began 
laying dry grasses and the tiniest twigs on the flame. 
He could not pick and choose, for he had to lift the 
fuel between the heels of his hands. Small pieces of 
rotten wood and green moss clung to the twigs, and 
he bit them off as well as he could with his teeth. He 



TO BUILD A FIRE 327 

cherished the flame carefully and awkwardly. It meant 
life, and it must not perish. The withdrawal of blood 
from the surface of his body now made him begin to 
shiver, and he grew more awkward. A large piece 
of green moss fell squarely on the little fire. He tried 
to poke it out with his fingers, but his shivering frame 
made him poke too far, and he disrupted the nucleus 
of the little fire, the burning grasses and tiny twigs 
separating and scattering. He tried to poke them to- 
gether again, but, in spite of the tenseness of the 
effort, his shivering got away with him, and the twigs 
were hopelessly scattered. Each twig gushed a puff 
of smoke and went out. The fire-provider had failed. 
As he looked apathetically about him, his eyes chanced 
on the dog, sitting across the ruins of the fire from 
him, in the snow, making restless, hunching move- 
ments, slightly lifting one forefoot and then the other, 
shifting its weight back and forth on them with wistful 
eagerness. 

The sight of the dog put a wild idea into his head. 
He remembered the tale of the man, caught in a bliz- 
zard, who killed a steer and crawled inside the carcass, 
and so was saved. He would kill the dog and bury 
his hands in the warm body until the numbness went 
out of them. Then he could build another fire. He 
spoke to the dog, calling it to him ; but in his voice was 
a strange note of fear that frightened the animal, 
who had never known the man to speak in such way 
before. Something was the matter, and its suspicious 
nature sensed danger — it knew not what danger, but 
somewhere, somehow, in its brain arose an apprehen- 



328 JACK LONDON 

sion of the man. It flattened its ears down at the 
sound of the man's voice, and its restless, hunching 
movements and the liftings and shif tings of its fore- 
feet became more pronounced ; but it would not come 
to the man. He got on his hands and knees and 
crawled toward the dog. This unusual posture again 
excited suspicion, and the animal sidled mincingly 
away. 

The man sat up in the snow for a moment and 
struggled for calmness. Then he pulled on his mit- 
tens, by means of his teeth, and got upon his feet. 
He glanced down at first in order to assure himself 
that he was really standing up, for the absence of 
sensation in his feet left him unrelated to the earth. 
His erect position in itself started to drive the webs 
of suspicion from the dog's mind; and when he spoke 
peremptorily, with the sound of whip-lashes in his 
voice, the dog rendered its customary allegiance and 
came to him. As it came within reaching distance, the 
man lost his control. His arms flashed out to the dog, 
and he experienced genuine surprise when he discov- 
ered that his hands could not clutch, that there was 
neither bend nor feeling in the fingers. He had for- 
gotten for the moment that they were frozen and that 
they were freezing more and more. All this happened 
quickly, and before the animal could get away, he en- 
circled its body with his arms. He sat down in the 
snow, and in this fashion held the dog, while it snarled 
and whined and struggled. 

But it was all he could do, hold its body encircled 
in his arms and sit there. He realized that he could 



TO BUILD A FIRE 329 

not kill the dog. There was no way to do it. With 
his helpless hands he could neither draw nor hold his 
sheath-knife nor throttle the animal. He released it, 
and it plunged wildly away, with tail between its legs, 
and still snarling. It halted forty feet away and sur- 
veyed him curiously, with ears sharply pricked for- 
ward. The man looked down at his hands in order 
to locate them, and found them hanging on the ends 
of his arms. It struck him as curious that one should 
have to use his eyes in order to find out where his 
hands were. He began threshing his arms back and 
forth, beating the mittened hands against his sides. 
He did this for five minutes, violently, and his heart 
pumped enough blood up to the surface to put a stop 
to his shivering. But no sensation was aroused in the 
hands. He had an impression that they hung like 
weights on the ends of his arms, but when he tried to 
run the impression down, he could not find it. 

A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive, came to 
him. This fear quickly became poignant as he real- 
ized that it was no longer a mere matter of freezing 
his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet, 
but that it was a matter of life and death, with the 
chances against him. This threw him into a panic, 
and he turned and ran up the creek-bed along the old 
dim trail. The dog joined in behind and kept up with 
him. He ran blindly, without intention, in fear such 
as he had never known in his life. Slowly, as he 
plowed and floundered through the snow, he began 
to see things again, — the banks of the creek, the old 
timber-jams, the leafless aspens, and the sky. The 



330 JACK LONDON 

running made him feel better. He did not shiver. 
Maybe, if he ran on, his feet would thaw out; and, 
anyway, if he ran far enough, he would reach the 
camp and the boys. Without doubt he would lose 
some fingers and toes and some of his face; but the 
boys would take care of him, and save the rest of him 
when he got there. And at the same time there was 
another thought in his mind that said he would never 
get to the camp and the boys; that it was too many 
miles away, that the freezing had too great a start on 
him, and that he would soon be stiff and dead. This 
thought he kept in the background and refused to 
consider. Sometimes it pushed itself forward and de- 
manded to be heard, but he thrust it back and strove 
to think of other things. 

It struck him as curious that he could run at all on 
feet so frozen that he could not feel them when they 
struck the earth and took the weight of his body. He 
seemed to himself to skim along above the surface, 
and to have no connection with the earth. Somewhere 
he had once seen a winged Mercury, and he wondered 
if Mercury felt as he felt when skimming over the 
earth. 

His theory of running until he reached camp and 
the boys had one flaw in it : he lacked the endurance. 
Several times he stumbled, and finally he tottered, 
crumpled up, and fell. When he tried to rise, he failed. 
He must sit and rest, he decided, and next time he 
would merely walk and keep on going. As he sat and 
regained his breath, he noted that he was feeling quite 
warm and comfortable. He was not shivering, and it 



TO BUILD A FIRE 331 

even seemed that a warm glow had come to his chest 
and trunk. And yet, when he touched his nose or 
cheeks, there was no sensation. Running would not 
thaw them out. Nor would it thaw out his hands and 
feet. Then the thought came to him that the frozen 
portions of his body must be extending. He tried to 
keep this thought down, to forget it, to think of some- 
thing else; he was aware of the panicky feeling that 
it caused, and he was afraid of the panic. But the 
thought asserted itself, and persisted, until it pro- 
duced a vision of his body totally frozen. This was 
too much, and he made another wild run along the 
trail. Once he slowed down to a walk, but the 
thought of the freezing extending itself made him run 
again. 

And all the time the dog ran with him, at his heels. 
When he fell down a second time, it curled its tail 
over its forefeet and sat in front of him, facing him, 
curiously eager and intent. The warmth and security 
of the animal angered him, and he cursed it till it flat- 
tened down its ears appeasingly. This time the shiv- 
ering came more quickly upon the man. He was losing 
in his battle with the frost. It was creeping into his 
body from all sides. The thought of it drove him 
on, but he ran no more than a hundred feet, when he 
staggered and pitched headlong. It was his last panic. 
When he had recovered his breath and control, he sat 
up and entertained in his mind the conception of meet- 
ing death with dignity. However, the conception did 
not come to him- in such terms. His idea of it was that 
he had been making a fool of himself, running around 



332 JACK LONDON 

like a chicken with its head cut off — such was the simile 
that occurred to him. Well, he was bound to freeze 
anyway, and he might as well take it decently. With 
this new-found peace of mind came the first glimmer- 
ings of drowsiness. A good idea, he thought, to sleep 
off to death. It was like taking an anaesthetic. Freez- 
ing was not so bad as people thought. There were 
lots worse ways to die. 

He pictured the boys finding his body next day. 
Suddenly he found himself with them, coming along 
the trail and looking for himself. And, still with 
them, he came around a turn in the trail and found 
himself lying in the snow. He did not belong with 
himself any more, for even then he was out of himself, 
standing with the boys and looking at himself in the 
snow. It certainly was cold, was his thought. When 
he got back to the States, he could tell the folks what 
real cold was. He drifted on from this to a vision of 
the old-timer on Sulphur Creek. He could see him 
quite clearly, warm and comfortable, and smoking a 
pipe. 

"You were right, old hoss ; you were right," the man 
mumbled to the old-timer of Sulphur Creek. 

Then the man drowsed off into what seemed to him 
the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever 
known. The dog sat facing him and waiting. The 
brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. 
There were no signs of a fire to be made, and, besides, 
never in the dog's experience had it known a man to sit 
like that in the snow and make no fire. As the twi- 
light drew on, its eager yearning for the fire mastered 






TO BUILD A FIRE 333 

it, and with a great lifting and shifting of forefeet, it 
whined softly, then flattened its ears down in anticipa- 
tion of being chidden by the man. But the man re- 
mained silent. Later, the dog whined loudly. And 
still later it crept close to the man and caught the 
scent of death. This made the animal bristle and back 
away. A little longer it delayed, howling under the 
stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the 
cold sky. Then it turned and trotted up the trail in 
the direction of the camp it knew, where were the 
other food-providers and fire-providers. 



Jack London. 



Although still a young man, Jack London has had 
a life of varied adventure. From his earliest years he 
has made a practice of learning the lore of the world 
at first hand. He was born in California in 1876. He 
spent some time upon ranches and in mining camps, 
but chiefly he loved, even as a boy, to knock about the 
harbor of San Francisco, earning what money he could 
at odd tasks, and associating with the sailors and steve- 
dores. When he was only fourteen, he was employed 
as a patrolman of the oyster beds ; here he had a num- 
ber of interesting experiences which, considerably later, 
he developed in his Tales of the Fish Patrol. In an 
effort to save him from what they deemed injurious 
influences, the family sent the boy to sea on a whaling 
vessel bound for northern waters. He saw something 
of Japan, and on his way home took part in a mutiny 
of the crew. When he returned, he found no steady 



334 JACK LONDON 

employment, but did such work as came to hand, shov- 
eling coal and unloading freight from the steamers at 
the docks. On a sudden impulse he joined Coxey's 
Army of the unemployed in its march to Washington. 
In Buffalo, in company with a number of tramps, he 
was arrested and sent to jail for three months. After 
his release he visited many Eastern cities, wandering 
about as the fancy seized him; finally he returned to 
California, chiefly by way of the brake-beams on the 
Canadian Pacific Railroad. 

London now began to make an attempt to write ; but 
finding that he needed more education, he entered the 
Oakland High School, and later prepared for college, 
supporting himself by means of various occupations. 
He stayed but a short time in college. The Klondike 
excitement lured him to the North, where he made no 
money, but endured many hardships and took part in 
perilous adventures which he soon found to be a valu- 
able stock-in-trade. Stimulated by his experiences, he 
again attempted writing. Some of his stories were 
accepted by the Overland Monthly, and gradually he 
gained access to other magazines as well. He made a 
journey to England, where he investigated the condi- 
tions in the London slums ; he published the results of 
his observations in People of the Abyss. By this 
time he had become thoroughly socialistic in his views. 
He continued to write, and in a short time had won 
his way to the favor of the public with his rugged 
stories of hardship in the Klondike. The Call of the 
Wild gave him a tremendous vogue, and since its pub- 
lication he has held an established place among Ameri- 



TO BUILD A FIRE 335 

can authors. Some of London's best novels and books 
of short-stories are The Son of the Wolf, Children 
of the Frost, Lost Face, Love of Life, The Sea Wolf, 
The God of His Fathers, and The Faith of Men. To 
Build a Fire is from the volume entitled Lost Face. 



bibliography 
Jack London : 

Current Literature, 28:283; 36:368 (Portrait). 

Overland, 35 : 417 ; 43 : 370. 

Outing, 44:486. 

Bookman, 11:200; 25:453 (Portrait); 17:562 

36:13 (Portrait). 
World's Work, 6:3696. 
Critic, 37 : 100. 
Book Buyer, 20 : 2jy. 
Craftsman, 9:607. 

Stories by London : 
Love of Life. 
The Sun-Dog Trail. 
Lost Face. 
All Gold Canyon. 
The Unexpected. 
Trust. 

Grit of Women. 
"Just Meat. ,, 
A Day's Lodging. 
The Faith of Men. 
Where the Trail Forks. 
One Thousand Dozen. 
Koolau the Leper. 
The Heathen. 



336 



JACK LONDON 



The House of Mapuhi. 
The Story of Keesh. 
The Great Interrogation. 
A Relic of the Pliocene. 
The Man with the Gash. 



RHYMER THE SECOND* 

By Arthur Morrison 

Bill Wragg, dealer in all creatures in size between 
that of a donkey and that of a mouse, but chiefly mer- 
chant of dogs, keeps a little shop on the right of a 

stable-entry in well, in London. He has taken me 

into his confidence, and there may be reasons why he 
would not like to see his precise address in print. 
Bill is a stoutish man of forty-five, with a brown, 
shaven face that looks very soft and puffy under the 
eyes and hard as rock everywhere else. He is a pros- 
perous man nowadays, as prosperity goes in the dog 
and guinea-pig line, and he has a sort of semi-detached 
assistant, a slightly junior creature of his own kind, 
whose name is Sam. Sam's other name is sometimes 
Brown, sometimes Styles, and sometimes Walker ; and 
sometimes Sam is Bill's accredited agent, and some- 
times he doesn't even know him by sight. 

Bill Wragg, as I have said, has now and again 
taken me into his confidence, in an odd, elliptic, non- 
committal manner that is all his own. Thus I have 
learned how, in the beginning of things, he started 
business in the parrot line with no money and no par- 

* Printed by permission of the author. 

337 



338 ARTHUR MORRISON 

rots ; of how he set up, after this first transaction, with 
a capital of five shillings and an empty bird-cage ; and 
other such professional matters. Among them was 
the story of a champion fox-terrier which he once pos- 
sessed, from which he had made a very respectable 
profit and to which he looked back with much pride. 

Bill sat on the edge of his rat-pit as he told the 
story, while I, preferring the society of Bill's best bull- 
pup before that of the few hundred squirming crea- 
tures that wriggled and fought a foot below Bill's coat- 
tails, used the upturned basket that was the seat of 
honor of the place. 

"That little bit o' business," said Bill, "was one o' 
my neatest, an' yet it was simple an' plain enough for 
any chap as was properly up in the lor about dawgs; 
any other cove might ha' made his honest fifty quid or 
so just the same way if he'd ha' thought of it; might 
do it now a'most — anyway if there was a mad-dog 
scare on, like what there was when I done this. It 
was jist this way. Me an' Sam, we was a-lookin' 
through the Crystal Palace Show when we sees quite a 
little crowd in the middle o' the fox-terrier bench. 
'Oh, what a love !' said one big gal. 'What a darlin' !' 
says another. 'He's a good dawg if you like,' says a 
swell. All a-puttin' on the mighty fly, ye know, 'cos 
they could see 'Fust Prize' stuck up over the dawg, so 
he was pretty sure to be a good 'un. ' 'E is a good pup, 
sure enough,' says Sam, when we got past the crowd ; 
'wait till them swells hooks it, an' see.' An' right 
enough, 'e was jist the best fox-terrier under the 
twelvemonth that ever I see, in a show or out. Sharp 



RHYMER THE SECOND 339 

and bright as a bantam ; lovely 'ead ; legs, back, chest, 
fust-rate everywhere; an' lor,' what a neck! Not a 
bad speck on 'im. Well — there, you know what 'e is ! 
Rhymer the Second ; fit to win anywhere now, though 
Vs getting a bit old." 

I knew the name very well as that of a dog that had 
been invincible in fox-terrier open classes a few years 
back. It was news to me that Bill Wragg had ever 
possessed such a dog as that. 

"Rhymer the Second," Bill repeated, biting off a 
piece from the straw he was chewing and beginning 
at the other end. "Though I called 'im Twizzler when 
'e was mine. Pure Bardlet strain, an' the best that 
ever come from it. An' 'ere 'e was, fust in puppy 
class, fust in novice class, fust in limit class, an' all 
at fust go." 

" 'Eh?' says Sam, 'that's about yer sort, ain't it?' " 

" 'Why, yus,' I says, ' 'e's a bit of all right. I could 
do very nice with 'im,' I says. 

"Sam grins, artful like. 'Well, ye never know yer 
luck/ he says. An' I was a-beginnin' to think things 
over." 

Mr. Wragg drew another straw from a sack by his 
side and resumed. 

"So we went an' bought a catalogue, an' I went on 
a-thinkin' things over. I thought 'em over to that ex- 
tent that I fell reg'lar in love with that little dawg, an' 
made up my mind I could pretty 'ardly live without 
'im. I am that sentimental, ye see, over a nice dawg. 
We sees the owner's address in the catalogue, an' he 
was a rare toff — reg'lar nob, with a big 'ouse over 



340 ARTHUR MORRISON 

Sutton way, breedin' fox-terriers for amusement. 
Sam took a bit o' trouble an' found out all about the 
'ouse, an' 'e found out that the swell kep' a boy that 
took out all the dawgs for exercise reg'lar every morn- 
in\ 'I thought as 'ow you might like to 'ave jist one 
more fond look at 'im,' says Sam. 

" 'Well, I think I should,' says I ; 'an' maybe take 
'im a little present — a bit o' liver or what not' 

"So Sam borrowed a 'andy little pony-barrer, an' 
next mornin' me an' 'im went for a drive over Sutton 
way. We stops at a quiet, convenient sort o' corner 
by a garden wall, where the boy alius come by with 
the dawgs, an' Sam, what 'ad picked up a pore stray 
cat close by, 'e stood off a bit farther on, like as 
though 'e'd never seen me afore in all his nat'ral. 

"Well, we didn't have to wait very long afore the 
boy comes along with a 'ole mob o' fox-terriers run- 
nin' all over the shop, 'cept two or three young 'uns 
on leads, an' givin' the boy all he could do to keep 'em 
together, I can tell ye. There was very nigh a score 
in the crowd, but I picked out my little beauty at once, 
an' there 'e was, trottin' along nice and genelmanly jist 
where I wanted 'im, a bit behind most of 'em. Jist 
as the boy goes past me, I ketches my little beauty's 
eye an' whips out my little present — a nice bit o' liver 
with just a touch o' fakement on it, you understand 
— just enough to fetch 'im. At the same moment 
Sam, in front, 'e somehow lets go the pore stray cat, 
an' off goes the 'ole bloomin' pack o' terriers arter 'er, 
an' the boy arter them, hollerin' an' whippin' like fun 



RHYMER THE SECOND 341 

— all 'cept my little beauty, as was more took up with 
my little bit o' liver. See ?" 

I saw, and the old rascal's eyes twinkled with pride 
in the neatness of his larceny. 

"Well, that cat made sich a fair run of it, an' the 
dawgs went arter 'er at sich a split, that in about 'arf 
a quarter of a minute my pore little beauty was a lost 
dawg with nobody in the world to take care of 'im 
but me an' Sam. An' in about 'arf a quarter of a 
minute more 'e was in a nice warm basket with plenty 
o' straw, a-havin' of a ride 'ome in the pony-bar rer jist 
as fast as the pony could take 'im. / ain't the cove to 
leave a pore little dawg all alone in the world." 

Here I laughed, and Bill Wragg's face assumed an 
expression of pained surprise. "Well, no more I 
ain't," he said. "Look what a risk I was a-takin' all 
along of a romantical attachment for that dawg. Why 
I might ha' bin 'ad up for stealin' 'im!" 

I banished unseemly mirth and looked very serious. 
"So you might," I said. "Terrible. Go on. Did you 
bring him home?" 

" 'E accompanied us, sir, all the way. When we 
took 'im out 'e was just a bit shy-like at bein' in a 
strange place, but as well as ever. I says to the missis, 
I says, ' 'Ere's a pore little lost dawg we've found. I 
think he's a pretty good 'un.' 

" 'Ah,' says she, 'that 'e is.' The missus 'as got a 
pretty good eye for a dawg — for a woman! 'That 
'e is,' says she. 'Are ye a-goin' to keep 'im?' 

" 'Keep 'im?' says I. 'No,' I says, 'not altogether. 



342 ARTHUR MORRISON 

That wouldn't be honest. I'm a-goin' to buy 'im, legal 
an' honorable.' 

" 'Buy 'im ?' says the missis, not tumblin' to the 
racket. 'Buy 'im ? 'Ow ?' 

" 'Buy 'im cheap,' says I, 'in about a month's time. 
'E'd be too dear jist at present for a pore 'ard-workin' 
chap like me. But we'll keep 'im for a month in case 
we're able to find the owner. Pity we can't afford to 
feed 'im very well, I says, an' o' course 'e might get a 
touch o' mange or summat — but that's luck. All 
you've got to do is to keep 'im close when I'm out, 
an' take care 'e don't get lost again.' 

"So we chained 'im up amongst the rest for that 
night, 'an we kep' 'im indoors for a month on the 
chain. O' course, bein' a pore man, I couldn't afford 
to feed 'im as well as the others — 'im bein' another 
man's dawg as could well afford to keep 'im, an' ought 
never to ha' been so careless a-losin' of 'im. An' be- 
sides, a dawg kep' on the chain for a month don't want 
so much grub as one as gits exercise. Anybody knows 
that. An' what's more, as I was a-goin' to buy 'im 
reg'lar, the wuss condition 'e got in the cheaper 'e'd 
come, ye see. So if we did starve 'im a bit, more or 
less, it was all out of affection for 'im. An' we let 
'is coat go any'ow, an we give it a touch of a little 
fakement I know about that makes it go patchy an' 
look like mange — though it's easy enough got rid of. 
An' so we kep' 'im for a month, an' 'e got seedier every 
day; an', o' course, we never 'eard anything from the 
swell at Sutton. 

"Well, at the end o' the month the little dawg looks 



RHYMER THE SECOND 343 

pretty mis'rable an' taper. An', to say nothink o' the 
mangy coat an' bad condition, all 'is spirit an' carriage 
was gone, an' you know as 'ow spirit an' carriage is 
'arf the pints in a fox-terrier. So I says to the missis, 
'Come,' I says, 'I'm about tired o' keepin' another 
man's dawg for nothink. Jist you put a string on 'im 
an' take 'im round to the p'lice station.' 

" 'What ?' says the missis. 'Why, I thought you 
was a-goin' to buy 'im !' For ye see she hadn't tumbled 
to the racket yet. 

" 'Never you mind,' says I ; 'you git yer bonnet an' 
do what I tell you.' 

"So the missis gets her bonnet an' puts a string on 
Rhymer the Second (which looked anythink but a 
winner by this time, you may bet) an' goes off to the 
p'lice station. She'd got her tale all right, o' course, 
from me, all about the stray dawg that 'ad bin f ollerin' 
'er, an' seemed so 'ungry, pore thing, an' wouldn't go 
away, an' that she was 'arf afraid of. So they took 
'im in, o' course, as dooty bound, an' put 'im along of 
the other strays, an' the missis she come 'ome without 
'im. 

"Well, Sam gives a sort o' casual eye to the p'lice 
station, an' next mornin' 'e sees a bobby go off with the 
strays what had been collected — about 'arf a dozen of 
'em — with our little chap among 'em, to the Dawgs' 
'Ome. Now in under standin' my little business specu- 
lation, you must remember that this was in the thick 
o' the muzzlin' rage, when the p'lice was very strict, 
an' the Dawgs' 'Ome was full enough to bust. I 
knowed the ropes o' the thing, an' I knowed pretty well 



344 ARTHUR MORRISON 

what 'ud happen. The little dawg 'ud be took in 
among the others in the big yard where they keep all 
the little 'uns, a place cram jam full o' other dawgs 
about 'is size an' condition, so as it ain't alius easy to 
tell t'other from which. There 'e'd stop for three 
days — no less an' no more, unless 'e was claimed or 
bought. If 'e wasn't either claimed or bought at the 
end o' three days, into the oven 'e went, an' there was 
an end of 'im. Mind you, in ordinary the good 'uns 
'ud be picked out an' nussed up an' what not, an' sold 
better; but these busy days there was no time an' 
no conveniences for that, an' they 'ad to treat 'em all 
alike. So that I was pretty sure anyway that the Sut- 
ton swell 'ad made 'is visit long ago, an' o' course, 
found nothink. So next day I says to the missis, 'Mis- 
sis, I've got another job for you. There's a pore little 
lost dawg at the Dawgs' 'Ome I want ye to buy. You'll 
git 'im for about five bob. 'E looks pretty much off 
color, I expect — 'arf starved, with a touch o' mange; 
an 'e's a fox-terrier.' 

"When the missis tumbled to it at last, I thought 
she'd ha' bust herself a-laughin'. 'Lor', Bill,' she says, 
'you — well there — you are! I never guessed what you 
was a-drivin' at.' 

" 'All right,' says I, 'you know now, anyway. Pitch 
your mug a bit more solemn than that an' sling out 
arter the dawg. An' mind, I says, mind an' git the 
proper receipt for the money in the orfice.' 

'"Cos why? That's lor. / knowed all that afore 
I begun the speculation. You go an' buy a dawg, fair 
an' honest, at the Dawgs' 'Ome, an' get a receipt for 



RHYMER THE SECOND 345 

yer money, an' that dawg's yourn — yourn straight an' 
legal, afore all the judges of England, no matter whose 
that dawg might ha' been once. That's been tried an' 
settled long ago. Now you see my arrangement plain 
enough, don't ye?" 

"Yes," I said, "I think I do. A little rough on the 
original owner, though, wasn't it ?" 

"Business, nothink but business! Why, bless ye, 
I'd ha' been in the workus long enough ago if I 'adn't 
kep' a sharp eye to business. An', Lor,' honesty's the 
best policy, as this 'ere speculation shows ye plain. If 
I'd ha' bin dishonest an' stole that dawg an' kep' it, 
what good would it ha' been to me? None at all. I 
couldn't ha' showed it, I couldn't ha' sold it for more'n 
a song, an' if I 'ad, why, it 'ud ha' bin spotted an' I'd 
ha' bin 'ad up. Well, six months 'ard ain't what I 
keep shop for, an' it ain't business. But playin' the 
honest, legal, proper game I made a bit, as you'll see. 

"The missis she goes off to the Dawgs' 'Ome. Mind 
you, they didn't know 'er. She only took the dawg to 
the p'lice, an' the p'lice took 'im to the 'ome. So the 
missis goes to the 'ome with 'er tale all ready, an' 
'Please, I want a little dawg,' she says, 'a nice, cheap 
little dog for me an' my 'usband to make a pet of. I 
think I'd like one o' them little white 'uns,' she says ; 
T dunno what they call 'em, but I mean them little 
white 'uns with black marks.' She can pitch it pretty 
innocent, can the missis, when she likes. 

" 'Why,' says the man, T expect you mean a fox- 
terrier. Well, we've got plenty o' them. Come this 
way, mum, an' look at 'em.' 



346 ARTHUR MORRISON 

"So 'e takes 'er along to the yard where the little uns 
was, an' she looks through the bars an' pretty soon she 
spots our little dawg not far off, lookin' as bad as any 
of 'em. There,' says she, 'that's the sort o' little dawg 
I was a-thinkin' of, if 'e wouldn't come too dear — that 
one there that looks so 'ungry, pore thing. I'd keep 
'im well fed, I would,' she says. 

"Well, it was all right about the price, an' she got 
'im for the five bob, an' got the receipt too, all reg'lar 
an' proper, in the orfice. 'You ain't chose none so bad, 
mum,' says the keeper, lookin' 'im over. 'E's a very 
good little dawg is that, only out o' condition. If we 
'adn't bin so busy we'd ha' put 'im into better trim, 
an' then 'e'd ha' bin dearer.' 

" 'Oh,' says the missis, 'then I couldn't 'ave afforded 
to buy 'im; so I'm glad you didn't.' 

" 'Well,' says the man, 'there's no character with 
'im, o' course, but I shouldn't be surprised if 'e was a 
pedigree dawg.' 'E knowed a thing or two, did that 
keeper. 

"So ye see the little dawg was mine, proper an' legal. 
Bein' mine, I could afford to treat 'im well, an precious 
soon, what with a dose or two o' stuff, careful feeding, 
plenty o' exercise, an' proper care o' the coat, Rhymer 
the Second was as bright an' 'andsome as ever. Only 
we called 'im Twizzler for reasons o' business, as you'll 
understand. An' 'e comes on so prime that I registers 
'im, an' next show round 'ere I enters 'im for every 
class 'e'd go in — open class, novice class, an' limit class. 
And bio wed if 'e didn't take fust in all of 'em, an' a 
special, too. But, there — 'e couldn't but win, sich a 



RHYMER THE SECOND 347 

beauty as 'e was; he ketches the judge's eye at once. 
After all the bad uns 'ad bin sent out o' the ring it was 
all done — the judges couldn't leave off lookin' at 'im. 
So there it was arter all — all the fusts for Mr. W. 
Wragg's Twizzler, pedigree unknown. Not for Sale. 

"Well, that was pretty good, but there was more to 
come. Just afore the show closed I was a-lookin' 
around with Sam, when one o' the keepers comes up 
with a message from the sec't'ry. There's a gent 
carryin' on like one o'clock,' says the keeper, 'about 
your fox-terrier. Swears it's 'is as was stole from 'im 
a while back, an' the sec't'ry would like you to step 
over/ 

"O' course, I was all ready, with the receipt snug 
an' 'andy in my pocket, an' I goes over as bold as brass. 
There was the sec't'ry with 'is rosette, an' another chap 
with 'is, an' a p'liceman an' a keeper, an' there was the 
toff with the gig-lamps an' a red face, a-shakin' of 'is 
fist an' rantin' an' goin' on awful. 'I tell you that's my 
dawg,' 'e says; 'the most valuable animal in my ken- 
nels, stole while 'e was bein' exercised! Some one 
shall go to gaol over this !' 'e says. 'Show me the man 
as entered it.' 

" 'All right, guv'nor,' says I, calm an' peaceful, 
'that's me; I entered 'im. Little dawg o' mine called 
Twizzler. What was you a-sayin' about 'im?' 

" 'Why, the dog's mine, I tell you, you rascal ! 
Stolen in February! And you've changed 'is name! 
What ' 

" 'Steady on, guv'nor,' I says, quiet an' dignified. 
'You're excited an' rather insultin'. I ain't changed 



348 ARTHUR MORRISON 

any dawg's name. 'E 'adn't got no name when I 
bought 'im, an' I give 'im the one 'e's got now. An' 
as to 'is bein' your dawg — well, 'e ain't, 'cos 'e's mine.' 

" 'Then 'ow did you come by him ?' he says, madder 
than ever. 

" 'Bought 'im, sir,' I says, 'reg'lar an' proper an' 
legal. Bought 'im for five shillin's.' 

" 'Five shillings !' roars the toff. 'Why, that dog's 
worth a hundred and fifty pounds! Here, where's a 
policeman ? I'll give him in charge ! I'll see this thing 
through; I'll ' 

" 'Five bob was the price, guv'nor,' says I, quiet and 
genelmanly. 'Though I've no doubt you understand 
'is value better than what I do. An' 'ere's my receipt,' 
I says, 'that makes me 'is owner honest an' legal be- 
fore any judge in England!' An' I pulls out the 
paper. 

" 'Well, just look 'ere,' says the sec't'ry, 'don't let's 
have any wrangling. There's a misunderstanding 
somewhere. You two gentlemen come into my office 
and see if it can't be settled.' 'Cos, you see, a little 
crowd was a-gettin' round, an' the sec't'ry he sees well 
enough 'ow I stood. So we walks over to the office, 
me leadin' the dawg along o' me, an' the toff puffin' an' 
blusterin' an' goin' on like steam. 

" 'Come,' says the sec't'ry, pleasant an' cordial, 'you 
two gentlemen have a cigar with me, and a whisky and 
soda,' 'e says ; 'an' let's see if this little matter can't be 
settled in a friendly way,' 'e says. 

" 'Well/ says I, 'I'm agreeable enough. Only what 
can I do, when this 'ere genelman comes a-kickin' up a 



RHYMER THE SECOND 349 

row an' chimin' my dawg, what I've bought legal an' 
above-board ? I can only tell honest 'ow I bought 'im, 
an' show my legal receipt as proves what I say. I'm 
civil enough to the genelman,' I says, 'ain't I ?' 

" 'Oh, yes, o' course,' says the sec't'ry. 'D'ye mind 
lettin' me look at that receipt again? No doubt we'll 
come to an arrangement.' 

" 'There's the receipt, sir,' I says ; 'I'm quite willin' 
to trust it to you as an honorable genelman,' I says. 

"So the sec't'ry 'as another look at the receipt, an' 
'Just excuse us a moment, Mr. Wragg/ he says, an' 'e 
goes inside with the toff an' begins talkin' it over quiet, 
while I lit up an' 'ad my whisky an' soda. I should 
think it was a bob cigar. I could just 'ear a word 'ere 
an' there — 'No help for it,' 'That's how it stands le- 
gally,' 'Think yourself lucky,' an' so on. An' at last 
they comes over an' the sec't'ry says, 'Well, Mr. 
Wragg,' he says, 'there's no doubt the dog's legally 
yours, as you say, but this gentleman's willing to buy 
him of you, and give you a good profit on your bar- 
gain. What do you say ?' 

" 'Why,' I says, ' 'e ain't for sale. You can see it 
plain enough on the catalogue.' 

" 'Oh, yes, of course, I know that,' says the sec't'ry. 
'But we're men of the world here, men of business — 
none more so than yourself, I'm sure — and we can 
make a deal, no doubt. What do you say to twenty 
pounds ?' 

" 'What ?' says I. 'Twenty pounds ? An' the genel- 
man 'isself said the dawg was worth a hundred an' 



350 ARTHUR MORRISON 

fifty this very minute? Is it likely?' says I. I 'ad 'im 
there, I think. 'It ain't reasonable,' I says. 

" 'H'm,' says the sec't'ry. 'He certainly did say 
something about the dog being valuable. But just 
think. It can't be worth much to you with no pedi- 
gree.' 

" 'It's worth jist what it'll fetch to me,' I says, 'an' 
no less.' 

" 'Just so,' the sec't'ry says, 'but nobody'll give you 
much for it with no pedigree, except this gentleman. 
And remember, you got it cheap enough.' 

" 'Well, I dunno about cheap,' I says, ' 'E's bin a bit 
of trouble to bring on an' git in condition,' I says. 

" 'Come, then,' says the sec't'ry, 'put your own price 
on 'im. Now !' 

" 'I don't want to be 'ard on the gent,' I says, 'an' 
seeing 'e's took sich a fancy to the little dawg I'll do 
'im a favor. I'll make a big reduction on the price 'e 
put on 'im 'isself. A hundred pound buys 'im.' 

"When 'e 'eard that the toff bounces round an' grabs 
'is 'at. 'I won't be robbed twice like that,' 'e says, 'if 
I lose five hundred dogs.' An' I begun to think I 
might ha' ventured a bit too 'igh. 'I won't submit to 
it,' says 'e. 

" 'Wait a moment,' says the sec't'ry, soothin' like. 
'Mr. Wragg's open to reason, I'm sure. You see, Mr. 
Wragg, the gentleman won't go anything like as high, 
and if he won't, nobody will. You won't take twenty. 
Let's say thirty, an' finish the business.' 

"Well, we goes on 'agglin', till at last we settles it at 
fifty. 



RHYMER THE SECOND 351 

" 'All right,' I says, when I see it wouldn't run to 
no more. ' 'Ave it yer own way. I don't want to 
stand in the way of a genelman as is took sich a fancy 
to a little dawg — I'm so sentimental over a dawg my- 
self,' I says. 

"So the toff, he pulls out 'is cheque book an' writes 
out a cheque on the spot. 'There,' says the sec't'ry, 
'that little misunderstanding's settled, an' I congratu- 
late you two gentlemen. You've made a very smart 
bargain, Mr. Wragg, an' you've got a dog, sir, that 
I hope will repay you well !' 

"An' so the toff went off with the little dawg, an' I 
went off with the fifty quid, both well pleased enough. 
An' the dawg did pay 'im well, as you can remember. 
'E was a lucky chap, was that toff. / never see sich a 
good dawg bought so cheap before. I ought to ha' got 
more for' im, I think — but there, I am so sentimental 
about a dawg !" 



Arthur Morrison. 

Mr. Arthur Morrison is an English writer who has 
distinguished himself in the field of the short-story. 
He was born in 1863. Of his early life little has been 
given to the world, since Mr. Morrison prefers to 
maintain a degree of privacy in spite of the distinction 
which his writings have conferred upon him. He was 
for some years the secretary of a charity trust, in 
which capacity he saw much of slum life on the East 
Side, in London. Here he gained his wide knowledge 
of the types and individuals who figure in his stories— 



352 ARTHUR MORRISON 

vagabonds, criminals, and the mere downtrodden bru- 
talized slum-dwellers who by inheritance and environ- 
ment are predestined to penury and degradation. Mr. 
Morrison joined the staff of a London newspaper, but 
did not stay long in journalism. The life with which 
he had come into touch in the slums stirred him to ex- 
pression in Tales of Mean Streets, published in Mac- 
millan's Magazine in 1891. These stories, with their 
sordid comedies and still more sordid tragedies, 
placed him at once among the promising writers of the 
day. This early work, however, was by some critics 
assailed as cynical and unnecessarily brutal. Mr. Mor- 
rison was accused also of being too close an imitator of 
Dickens. Nevertheless, his later work has refuted 
his adversaries and justified his admirers. His humor- 
ous tales have gone far to remove the impression of 
pessimism which his first stories were inclined to create, 
and his serious narratives are marked by a directness 
that places them among the best of modern English 
short-stories. 

Mr. Morrison is a collector of Japanese objets d'art, 
especially of paintings, of which he is a connoisseur. 
His articles and books on Japanese art are recognized 
as authoritative. Besides the book named above, Mr. 
Morrison has written A Child of the Jago, The Hole 
in the Wall, The Chronicles of Martin Hewett — a 
series of detective stories — The Green Eye of Goona, 
Green Ginger, The Red Triangle, Divers Vanities, To 
London Town, and Cunning Murrell. With H. C. 
Sargent he has dramatized his famous little story, 
That Brute Simmons, and with Richard Pryce he has 



RHYMER THE SECOND 353 

written a play, The Dumb Cake. A list of his best 
short-stories is given below. 



bibliography 

Arthur Morrison : 

Wyzewa, Teodor: Ecrivains etrangers [Second Ser- 
ies], pp. 269 et seq. 

Harper's Weekly, 46 : 1414. 

Academy, 52:493. 
' Outlook, 72:796 (Portrait). 

Bookman, 12 : 625 ; 20 : 160. 

Stories by Morrison : 
On the Stairs. 
That Brute Simmons. 
To Bow Bridge. 
A Blot on St. Basil. 
Teacher and Taught. 
A "Dead Un." 

The Legend of Lap water Hall. 
The Black Badger. 
In Business. 
His Tale of Bricks. 
Behind the Shade. 
Snorky Timms, His Marks. 
Without Visible Means. 
"A Poor Stick." 
The Seller of Hate. 
Mr. Bostock's Backsliding. 
The Ivy Cottage Mystery. 
The Micobar Bullion Case. 



A LIVING RELIC* 
By Ivan Turgenev 

O native land of long-suffering, 
Land of the Russian people. 

F. Tyutchev. 

A French proverb says that "a dry fisherman and a 
wet hunter are a sorry sight." Never having had any 
taste for fishing, I cannot decide what are the fisher- 
man's feelings in fine bright weather, and how far in 
bad weather the pleasure derived from the abundance 
of fish compensates for the unpleasantness of being 
wet. But for the sportsman rain is a real calamity. It 
was to just this calamity that Yermolai and I were 
exposed on one of our expeditions after grouse in the 
Byelevsky district. The rain never ceased from early 
morning. What didn't we do to escape it? We put 
mackintosh capes almost right over our heads, and 
stood under the trees to avoid the raindrops. . . . The 
waterproof capes, to say nothing of their hindering our 
shooting, let the water through in the most shameless 
fashion ; and under the trees, though at first, certainly, 
the rain did not reach us, afterward the water collected 
on the leaves suddenly rushed through, every branch 

♦Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett. Copy- 
right by the Macmillan Company. 

354 



A LIVING RELIC 355 

dripped on us like a waterspout, a chill stream made 
its way under our neckties, and trickled down our 
spines. . . . This was "quite unpleasant," as Yer- 
molai expressed it. "No, Piotr Petrovitch," he cried 
at last; "we can't go on like this. . . . There's no 
shooting to-day. The dogs' scent is drowned. The 
guns miss fire. . . . Pugh ! What a mess !" 

"What's to be done ?" I queried. 

"Well, let's go to Aleksyevka. You don't know it, 
perhaps — there's a settlement of that name belonging 
to your mother ; it's seven miles from here. We'll stay 
the night there, and to-morrow. . . ." 

"Come back here?" 

"No, not here. ... I know of some places beyond 
Aleksyevka . . . ever so much better than here for 
grouse !" 

I did not proceed to question my faithful companion 
why he had not taken me to those parts before, and the 
same day we made our way to my mother's peasant 
settlement, the existence of which, I must confess, I 
had not even suspected up till then. At this settlement, 
it turned out, there was a little lodge. It was very old, 
but, as it had not been inhabited, it was clean ; I passed 
a fairly tranquil night in it. 

The next day I woke up very early. The sun had 
only just risen; there was not a single cloud in the 
sky ; everything around shone with a double brilliance 
— the brightness of the fresh morning rays and of yes- 
terday's downpour. While they were harnessing me a 
cart, I went for a stroll about a small orchard, now neg- 
lected and run wild, which inclosed the little lodge on 



356 IVAN TURGENEV 

all sides with its fragrant, sappy growth. Ah, how 
sweet it was in the open air, under the bright sky, 
where the larks were trilling, whence their bell-like 
notes rained down like silvery beads ! On their wings, 
doubtless, they had carried off drops of dew, and their 
songs seemed steeped in dew. I took my cap off my 
head and drew a glad deep breath. . . . On the slope 
of a shallow ravine, close to the hedge, could be seen a 
beehive ; a narrow path led to it, winding like a snake 
between dense walls of high grass and nettles, above 
which struggled up, God knows whence brought, the 
pointed stalks of dark-green hemp. 

I turned along this path ; I reached the beehive. Be- 
side it stood a little wattled shanty, where they put the 
beehives for the winter. I peeped into the half-open 
door; it was dark, still, dry within; there was a scent 
of mint and balm. In the corner were some trestles 
fitted together, and on them, covered with a quilt, a 
little figure of some sort. ... I was walking away. . . . 

"Master, master! Piotr Petrovitch !" I heard a voice, 
faint, slow, and hoarse, like the whispering of marsh 
rushes. 

I stopped. 

"Piotr Petrovitch! Come in, please!'' the voice re- 
peated. It came from the corner where were the tres- 
tles I had noticed. 

I drew near, and was struck dumb with amazement. 
Before me lay a living human being; but what sort of 
a creature was it ? 

A head utterly withered, of a uniform coppery hue — 
like some very ancient holy picture, yellow with age ; a 



A LIVING RELIC 357 

sharp nose like a keen-edged knife ; the lips could barely 
be seen — only the teeth flashed white and the eyes ; and 
from under the kerchief some thin wisps of yellow hair 
straggled on to the forehead. At the chin, where the 
quilt was folded, two tiny hands of the same coppery 
hue were moving, the fingers slowly twitching like little 
sticks. I looked more intently; the face, far from 
being ugly, was positively beautiful, but strange and 
dreadful; and the face seemed the more dreadful to 
me that on it — on its metallic cheeks — I saw, strug- 
gling . . . struggling, and unable to form itself — a 
smile. 

"You don't recognize me, master?" whispered the 
voice again : it seemed to be breathed from the almost 
unmoving lips. "And, indeed, how should you? I'm 
Lukerya. . . . Do you remember, who used to lead 
the dance at your mother's, at Spasskoye? . . . Do 
you remember, I used to be leader of the choir, too?" 

"Lukerya !" I cried. "Is it you? Can it be?" 

"Yes, it's I, master — I, Lukerya." 

I did not know what to say, and gazed in stupefac- 
tion at the dark, motionless face with the clear, death- 
like eyes fastened upon me. Was it possible? This 
mummy Lukerya — the greatest beauty in all our house- 
hold — that tall, plump, pink-and-white, singing, laugh- 
ing, dancing creature! Lukerya, our smart Lukerya, 
whom all our lads were courting, for whom I heaved 
some secret sighs — I, a boy of sixteen! 

"Mercy, Lukerya!" I said at last; "what is it has 
happened to you?" 

"Oh, such a misfortune befell me ! But don't mind 



358 IVAN TURGENEV 

me, sir; don't let my trouble revolt you; sit there on 
that little tub — a little nearer, or you won't be able to 
hear me. . . . I've not much of a voice nowadays! 
. . . Well, I am glad to see you ! What brought you 
to Aleksyevka ?" 

Lukerya spoke very softly and feebly, but without 
pausing. 

"Yermolai, the huntsman, brought me here. But 
you tell me . . ." 

"Tell you about my trouble ? Certainly, sir. It hap- 
pened to me a long while ago now — six or seven years. 
I had only just been betrothed then to Vassily Polyakov 
— do you remember, such a fine-looking fellow he was, 
with curly hair? — he waited at table at your mother's. 
But you weren't in the country then; you had gone 
away to Moscow to your studies. We were very much 
in love, Vassily and me ; I could never get him out of 
my head; and it was in the spring it all happened. 
Well, one night . . . not long before sunrise, it was 
... I couldn't sleep; a nightingale in the garden was 
singing so wonderfully sweet! ... I could not help 
getting up and going out on to the steps to listen. It 
trilled and trilled . . . and all at once I fancied some 
one called me; it seemed like Vassya's voice, so softly, 
'Lusha!' ... I looked round, and being half asleep, 
I suppose, I missed my footing and fell straight down 
from the top step, and flop onto the ground! And I 
thought I wasn't much hurt, for I got up directly and 
went back to my room. Only it seems something inside 
me — in my body — was broken. . . . Let me get my 
breath . . . half a minute . . . sir." 



A LIVING RELIC 359 

Lukerya ceased, and I looked at her with surprise. 
What surprised me particularly was that she told her 
story almost cheerfully, without sighs and groans, not 
complaining nor asking for sympathy. 

"Ever since that happened," Lukerya went on, "I 
began to pine away and get thin; my skin got dark; 
walking was difficult with me; and then — I lost the 
use of my legs altogether; I couldn't stand or sit; I 
had to lie down all the time. And I didn't care to eat 
or drink; I got worse and worse. Your mamma, in 
the kindness of her heart, made me see doctors, and 
sent me to a hospital. But there was no curing me. 
And not one doctor could even say what my illness was. 
What didn't they do to me? — they burned my spine 
with hot irons, they put me in lumps of ice, and it was 
all no good. I got quite numb in the end. ... So 
the gentlemen decided it was no use doctoring me any 
more, and there was no sense in keeping cripples up 
at the great house . . . well, and so they sent me here 
— because I've relations here. So here I live, as you 
see." 

Lukerya was silent again, and again she tried to 
smile. 

"But this is awful — your position !" I cried . . . and 
not knowing how to go on, I asked: "and what of 
Vassily Polyakov?" A most stupid question it was. 

Lukerya turned her eyes a little away. 

"What of Polyakov? He grieved — he grieved for 
a bit — and he is married to another, a girl from Glin- 
noe. Do you know Glinnoe? It's not far from us. 
Her name's Agrafena, He loved me dearly — but, you 



3<5o IVAN TURGENEV 

see, he's a young man! he couldn't stay a bachelor. 
And what sort of a helpmeet could I be? The wife 
he found for himself is a good, sweet woman — and 
they have children. He lives here; he's clerk at a 
neighbor's; your mamma let him go off with a pass- 
port, and he's doing very well, praise God !" 

"And so you go on lying here all the time ?" I asked 
again. 

"Yes, sir, I've been lying here seven years. In the 
summer time I lie here in this shanty, and when it gets 
cold they move me out into the bath house : I lie there." 

"Who waits on you? Does anyone look after you?" 

"Oh, there are kind folks here as everywhere; they 
don't desert me. Yes, they see to me a little. As to 
food, I eat nothing to speak of; but water is here, in 
the pitcher; it's always kept full of pure spring water. 
I can reach to the pitcher myself : I've one arm still of 
use. There's a little girl here, an orphan; now and 
then she comes to see me, the kind child. She was 
here just now. . . . You didn't meet her? Such a 
pretty, fair little thing. She brings me flowers. We've 
some in the garden — there were some — but they've 
all disappeared. But, you know, wild flowers, too, are 
nice; they smell even sweeter than garden flowers. 
Lilies of the valley, now . . . what could be sweeter?" 

"And aren't you dull and miserable, my poor Lu- 
kerya?" 

"Why, what is one to do? I wouldn't tell a lie 
about it. At first it was very wearisome ; but later on 
I got used to it, I got more patient — it was nothing; 
there are others worse off still." 



A LIVING RELIC 361 

"How do you mean ?" 

"Why, some haven't a roof to shelter them, and 
there are some blind or deaf; while I, thank God, have 
splendid sight, and hear everything — everything. If 
a mole burrows in the ground — I hear even that. And 
I can smell every scent, even the faintest ! When the 
buckwheat conies into flower in the meadow, or the 
lime-tree in the garden — I don't need to be told of it, 
even; I'm the first to know directly. Anyway, if 
there's the least bit of a wind blowing from that quar- 
ter. No, he who stirs God's wrath is far worse off 
than me. Look at this, again: anyone in health may 
easily fall into sin ; but I'm cut off even from sin. The 
other day, Father Aleksy, the priest, came to give me 
the sacrament, and he says: 'There's no need,' says 
he, 'to confess you ; you can't fall into sin in your con- 
dition, can you ?' But I said to him : 'How about sin- 
ning in thought, father?' 'Ah, well,' says he, and he 
laughed himself, 'that's no great sin.' 

"But I fancy I'm no great sinner even in that way, 
in thought," Lukerya went on, "for I've trained myself 
not to think, and above all, not to remember. The time 
goes faster." 

I must own I was astonished. "You're always alone, 
Lukerya : how can you prevent the thoughts from com- 
ing into your head ? or are you constantly asleep ?" 

"Oh, no, sir ! I can't always sleep. Though I've no 
great pain, still I've an ache, there, right inside, and in 
my bones, too; it won't let me sleep as I ought. No 
. . . but there, I lie by myself; I lie here and lie here, 
and don't think ; I feel that I'm alive, I breathe ; and I 



362 IVAN TURGENEV 

put myself all into that. I look and listen. The bees 
buzz and hum in the hive ; a dove sits on the roof and 
coos; a hen comes along with her chickens to peck up 
crumbs; or a sparrow flies in, or a butterfly — that's a 
great treat for me. Last year some swallows even 
built a nest over there in the corner, and brought up 
their little ones. Oh, how interesting it was! One 
would fly to the nest, press close, feed a young one, and 
off again. Look again : the other would be in her place 
already. Sometimes it wouldn't fly in, but only fly past 
the open door; and the little ones would begin to 
squeak, and open their beaks directly. ... I was 
hoping for them back again the next year, but they say 
a sportsman here shot them with his gun. And what 
could he gain by it? It's hardly bigger, the swallow, 
than a beetle. . . . What wicked men you are, you 
sportsmen !" 

"I don't shoot swallows," I hastened to remark. 

"And once," Lukerya began again, "it was comical, 
really. A hare ran in, it did really! The hounds, I 
suppose, were after it; anyway, it seemed to tumble 
straight in at the door! ... It squatted quite near 
me, and sat so a long while; it kept sniffing with its 
nose, and twitching its whiskers — like a regular officer ! 
and it looked at me. It understood, to be sure, that I 
was no danger to it. At last it got up, went hop-hop 
to the door, looked round in the doorway; and what 
did it look like ? Such a funny fellow it was !" 

Lukerya glanced at me, as much as to say, "Wasn't 
it funny?" To satisfy her, I laughed. She moistened 
her parched lips. 



A LIVING RELIC 363 

"Well, in the winter, of course, I'm worse off, be- 
cause it's dark : to burn a candle would be a pity, and 
what would be the use? I can read, to be sure, and 
was always fond of reading, but what could I read? 
There are no books of any kind, and even if there 
were, how could I hold a book ? Father Aleksy brought 
me a calendar to entertain me, but he saw it was no 
good, so he took and carried it away again. But even 
though it's dark, there's always something to listen to : 
a cricket chirps, or a mouse begins scratching some- 
where. That's when it's a good thing — not to think! 

"And I repeat the prayers, too," Lukerya went on, 
after taking breath a little ; "only I don't know many 
of them — the prayers, I mean. And, besides, why 
should I weary the Lord God ? What can I ask Him 
for? He knows better than I what I need. He has 
laid a cross upon me : that means that He loves me. So 
we are commanded to understand. I repeat the Lord's 
Prayer, the Hymn to the Virgin, the Supplication of all 
the Afflicted, and I lie still again, without any thought 
at all, and am all right !" 

Two minutes passed by. I did not break the silence, 
and did not stir on the narrow tub which served me as 
a seat. The cruel stony stillness of the living, unlucky 
creature lying before me communicated itself to me; 
I, too, turned, as it were, numb. 

"Listen, Lukerya," I began at last ; "listen to the sug- 
gestion I'm going to make to you. Would you like me 
to arrange for them to take you to a hospital — a good 
hospital in the town ? Who knows, perhaps you might 
yet be cured ; anyway, you would not be alone. ..." 



364 IVAN TURGENEV 

Lukerya's eyebrows fluttered faintly. "Oh, no, sir," 
she answered in a troubled whisper: "don't move me 
into a hospital ; don't touch me. I shall only have more 
agony to bear there ! How could they cure me now ? 
. . . Why, there was a doctor came here once; he 
wanted to examine me. I begged him, for Christ's 
sake, not to disturb me. It was no use. He began 
turning me over, pounding my hands and legs, and 
pulling me about. He said, Tm doing this for Science ; 
I'm a servant of Science — a scientific man! And you,' 
he said, 'really oughtn't to oppose me, because I've a 
medal given me for my labors, and it's for you simple- 
tons I'm toiling.' He mauled me about, told me the 
name of my disease — some wonderful long name — 
and with that he went away; and all my poor bones 
ached for a week after. You say 'I'm all alone ; always 
alone.' Oh, no, I'm not always; they come to see me — 
I'm quiet — I don't bother them. The peasant girls 
come in and chat a bit ; a pilgrim woman will wander 
in, and tell me tales of Jerusalem, of Kiev, of the holy 
towns. And I'm not afraid of being alone. Indeed, 
it's better — aye, aye! Master, don't touch me, don't 
take me to the hospital. . . . Thank you, you are 
kind; only don't touch me, there's a dear!" 

"Well, as you like, as you like, Lukerya. You know, 
I only suggested it for your good." 

"I know, master, that it was for my good. But, 
master dear, who can help another? Who can enter 
into his soul? Every man must help himself! You 
won't believe me, perhaps. I lie here sometimes so 
alone . . . and it's as though there were no one else 



A LIVING RELIC 365 

in the world but me. As if I alone were living! And 
it seems to me as though something were blessing 
me. . . . I'm carried away by dreams that are really 
marvelous !" 

"What do you dream of, then, Lukerya?" 

"That, too, master, I couldn't say ; one can't explain. 
Besides, one forgets afterward. It's like a cloud com- 
ing over and bursting, then it grows so fresh and 
sweet ; but just what it was, there's no knowing ! Only 
my idea is, if folks were near me, I should have noth- 
ing of that, and should feel nothing except my misfor- 
tune." 

Lukerya heaved a painful sigh. Her breathing, like 
her limbs, was not under her control. 

"When I come to think, master, of you," she began 
again, "you are very sorry for me. But you mustn't 
be too sorry, really! I'll tell you one thing; for in- 
stance, I sometimes, even now. . . . Do you remem- 
ber how merry I used to be in my time? A regular 
madcap! ... So do you know what? I sing songs 
even now." 

"Sing? . . . You?" 

"Yes ; I sing the old songs, songs for choruses, for 
feasts, Christmas songs, all sorts! I know such a lot 
of them, you see, and I've not forgotten them. Only 
dance songs I don't sing. In my state now it wouldn't 
suit me." 

"How do you sing them ? . . . to yourself?" 

"To myself, yes ; and aloud, too. I can't sing loud, 
but still one can understand it. I told you a little girl 
waits on me. A clever little orphan she is. So I have 



366 IVAN TURGENEV 

taught her; four songs she has learned from me al- 
ready. Don't you believe me? Wait a minute, I'll 
show you directly. . . ." 

Lukerya took breath. . . . The thought that this 
half-dead creature was making ready to begin singing 
raised an involuntary feeling of dread in me. But be- 
fore I could utter a word, a long-drawn-out, hardly 
audible, but pure and true note, was quivering in my 
ears. ... it was followed by a second and a third. 
"In the meadows," sang Lukerya. She sang, the ex- 
pression of her stony face unchanged, even her eyes 
riveted on one spot. But how touchingly tinkled out 
that poor struggling little voice, that wavered like a 
thread of smoke: how she longed to pour out all her 
soul in it! . . . I felt no dread now; my heart 
throbbed with unutterable pity. 

"Ah, I can't!" she said suddenly. "I've not the 
strength. I'm so upset with joy at seeing you." 

She closed her eyes. 

I laid my hand on her tiny, chill fingers. . . . She 
glanced at me, and her dark lids, fringed with golden 
eyelashes, closed again, and were still as an ancient 
statue's. An instant later they glistened in the half- 
darkness. . . . They were moistened by a tear. 

As before, I did not stir. 

"How silly I am !" said Lukerya suddenly, with un- 
expected force, and opened her eyes wide : she tried to 
wink the tears out of them. "I ought to be ashamed! 
What am I doing? It's a long time since I have been 
like this . . . not since that day when Vassya Polya- 
kov was here last spring. While he sat with me and 



A LIVING RELIC 367 

talked, I was all right; but when he had gone away, 
how I did cry in my loneliness ! Where did I get the 
tears from? But, there; we girls get our tears for 
nothing. Master," added Lukerya, "perhaps you have 
a handkerchief. ... If you won't mind, wipe my 
eyes." 

I made haste to carry out her desire, and left her the 
handkerchief. She refused it at first. . . . "What 
good's such a gift to me?" she said. The handkerchief 
was plain enough, but clean and white. Afterward she 
clutched it in her weak fingers, and did not loosen them 
again. As I got used to the darkness in which we both 
were, I could clearly make out her features, could even 
perceive the delicate flush that peeped out under the 
coppery hue of her face, could discover in the face, so 
at least it seemed to me, traces of its former beauty. 

"You asked me, master," Lukerya began again, 
"whether I sleep. I sleep very little, but every time I 
fall asleep I've dreams — such splendid dreams ! I'm 
never ill in my dreams ; I'm always so well, and young. 
. . . There's one thing's sad : I wake up and long for 
a good stretch, and I'm all as if I were in chains. I 
once had such an exquisite dream ! Shall I tell it you ? 
Well, listen. I dreamed I was standing in a meadow, 
and all round me was rye, so tall, and ripe as gold! 
. . . and I had a reddish dog with me — such a wicked 
dog; it kept trying to bite me. And I had a sickle in 
my hands ; not a simple sickle ; it seemed to be the moon 
itself — the moon as it is when it's the shape of a sickle. 
And with this same moon I had to cut the rye clean. 
Only I was very weary with the heat, and the moon 



368 IVAN TURGENEV 

blinded me, and I felt lazy ; and cornflowers were grow- 
ing all about, and such big ones ! And they all turned 
their heads to me. And I thought in my dream I would 
pick them; Vassya had promised to come, so I'd pick 
myself a wreath first ; I'd still time to plait it. I began 
picking cornflowers, but they kept melting away from 
between my fingers, do what I would. And I couldn't 
make myself a wreath. And meanwhile I heard some 
one coming up to me, so close, and calling, 'Lush! 
Lusha!' . . . 'Ah,' I thought, 'what a pity I hadn't 
time !' No matter, I put that moon on my head instead 
of cornflowers. I put it on like a tiara, and I was all 
brightness directly ; I made the whole field light around 
me. And, behold ! over the very top of the ears there 
came gliding very quickly toward me, not Vassya, but 
Christ Himself! And how I knew it was Christ I 
can't say ; they don't paint Him like that — only it was 
He ! No beard, tall, young, all in white, only His belt 
was golden; and He held out His hand to me. 'Fear 
not/ said He ; 'My bride adorned, follow Me ; you shall 
lead the choral dance in the heavenly kingdom, and 
sing the songs of Paradise.' And how I clung to His 
hand! My dog at once followed at my heels. . . . 
but then we began to float upward! He in front. . . . 
His wings spread wide over all the sky, long like a sea- 
gull's — and I after Him! And my dog had to stay 
behind. Then only I understood that that dog was my 
illness, and that in the heavenly kingdom there was no 
place for it." 

Lukerya paused a minute. 

"And I had another dream, too," she began again; 



A LIVING RELIC 369 

"but maybe it was a vision. I really don't know. It 
seemed to me I was lying in this very shanty, and my 
dead parents, father and mother, come to me and bow 
low to me, but say nothing. And I asked them, 'Why 
do you bow down to me, father and mother?' 'Be- 
cause/ they said, 'you suffer much in this world, so that 
you have not only set free your own soul, but have 
taken a great burden from off us, too. And for us in 
the other world it is much easier. You have made an 
end of your own sins; now you are expiating our 
sins/ And having said this, my parents bowed down 
to me again, and I could not see them ; there was noth- 
ing but the walls to be seen. I was in great doubt 
afterward what had happened with me. I even told 
the priest of it in confession. Only he thinks it was 
not a vision, because visions come only to the clerical 
gentry. 

"And I'll tell you another dream," Lukerya went on. 
"I dreamed I was sitting on the highroad, under a wil- 
low; I had a stick, had a wallet on my shoulders, and 
my head tied up in a kerchief, just like a pilgrim 
woman ! And I had to go somewhere, a long, long way 
off, on a pilgrimage. And pilgrims kept coming past 
me; they came along slowly, all going one way; their 
faces were weary, and all very much like one another. 
And I dreamed that moving about among them was a 
woman, a head taller than the rest, and wearing a 
peculiar dress, not like ours — not Russian. And her 
face, too, was peculiar — a worn face and severe. And 
all the others moved away from her ; but she suddenly 
turns, and comes straight to me. She stood still, and 



370 IVAN TURGENEV 

looked at me; and her eyes were yellow, large, and 
clear as a falcon's. And I ask her, "Who are you?' 
And she says to me, I'm your death.' Instead of being 
frightened, it was quite the other way. I was as 
pleased as could be ; I crossed myself ! And the woman, 
my death, says to me: 'I'm sorry for you, Lukerya, 
but I can't take you with me. Farewell !' Good God ! 
how sad I was then! . . . 'Take me,' said I, 'good 
mother, take me, darling!' And my death turned to 
me, and began speaking to me. ... I knew that she 
was appointing me my hour, but indistinctly, incompre- 
hensibly. 'After St. Peter's day,' said she. . . . With 
that I awoke. . . . Yes, I have such wonderful 
dreams !" 

Lukerya turned her eyes upward . . . and sank into 
thought. . . . 

"Only the sad thing is, sometimes a whole week will 
go by without my getting to sleep once. Last year a 
lady came to see me, and she gave me a little bottle of 
medicine against sleeplessness ; she told me to take ten 
drops at a time. It did me so much good, and I used 
to sleep; only the bottle was all finished long ago. Do 
you know what medicine that was, and how to get it?" 

The lady had obviously given Lukerya opium. I 
promised to get her another bottle like it, and could not 
refrain from again wondering aloud at her patience. 

"Ah, master!" she answered, "why do you say so? 
What do you mean by patience ? There, Simeon Sty- 
lites now had patience certainly, great patience; for 
thirty years he stood on a pillar! And another saint 
had himself buried in the earth, right up to his breast, 



A LIVING RELIC 371 

and the ants ate his face. . . . And I'll tell you what 
I was told by a good scholar : there was once a country, 
and the Ishmaelites made war on it, and they tortured 
and killed all the inhabitants ; and do what they would, 
the people could not get rid of them. And there ap- 
peared among these people a holy virgin; she took a 
great sword, put on armor weighing eighty pounds, 
went out against the Ishmaelites and drove them all 
beyond the sea. Only when she had driven them out, 
she said to them: 'Now burn me, for that was my 
vow, that I would die a death by fire for my people.' 
And the Ishmaelites took her and burned her, and the 
people have been free ever since then! That was a 
noble deed, now ! But what am I !" 

I wondered to myself whence and in what shape the 
legend of Joan of Arc had reached her, and after a 
brief silence, I asked Lukerya how old she was. 

"Twenty-eight ... or nine. ... It won't be 
thirty. But why count the years ! I've something else 
to tell you. . . ." 

Lukerya suddenly gave a sort of choked cough, and 
groaned. . . . 

"You are talking a great deal," I observed to her; "it 
may be bad for you." 

"It's true," she whispered, hardly audibly; "it's time 
to end our talk ; but what does it matter ! Now, when 
you leave me, I can be silent as long as I like. Any- 
way, I've opened my heart. . . ." 

I began bidding her good-by. I repeated my prom- 
ise to send her the medicine, and asked her once more 



372 IVAN TURGENEV 

to think well and tell me — if there wasn't anything she 
wanted ? 

"I want nothing; I am content with all, thank God !" 
she articulated with very great effort, but with emo- 
tion ; "God give good health to all ! But there, master, 
you might speak a word to your mamma — the peasants 
here are poor — if she could take the least bit off their 
rent! They've not land enough, and no advantages. 
. . . They would pray to God for you. . . . But I 
want nothing; I'm quite contented with all." 

I gave Lukerya my word that I would carry out her 
request, and had already walked to the door. . . . She 
called me back again. 

"Do you remember, master," she said, and there was 
a gleam of something wonderful in her eyes and on her 
lips, "what hair I used to have? Do you remember, 
right down to my knees ! It was long before I could 
make up my mind to it. . . . Such hair as it was ! But 
how could it be kept combed ? In my state ! . . . So 
I had it cut off. . . . Yes. . . . Well, good-by, mas- 
ter! I can't talk any more. . . ." 

That day, before setting off to shoot, I had a conver- 
sation with the village constable about Lukerya. I 
learned from him that in the village they called Lu- 
kerya the "Living Relic" ; that she gave them no trou- 
ble, however; they never heard complaint or repining 
from her. "She asks nothing, but, on the contrary, 
she's grateful for everything; a gentle soul, one must 
say, if any there be. Stricken of God," so the constable 
concluded, "for her sins, one must suppose; but we do 



A LIVING RELIC 373 

not go into that. And as for judging her, no — no, we 
do not judge her. Let her be !" 

A few weeks later I heard that Lukerya was dead. 
So her death had come for her . . . and "after St. 
Peter's day." They told me that on the day of her 
death she kept hearing the sound of bells, though it 
was reckoned over five miles from Aleksyevka to the 
church, and it was a week-day. Lukerya, however, had 
said that the sounds came not from the church, but 
from above ! Probably she did not dare to say — from 
heaven. 

[Note. — This story may be compared with The Life 
of Nancy, by Sarah Orne Jewett.] 



Ivan Turgenev. 



Anyone who has read the novels of Ivan Turgenev, 
and noted the perfect art by means of which condensa- 
tion and unity are attained, would expect him to be a 
writer of short-stories as admirable in their way as 
the novels themselves. We include here A Living 
Relic, from A Sportsman's Sketches, as an illus- 
tration of the poetic prose narrative in which the 
great Russian writer was often at his best. Turgenev 
was born at Orel, in south-central Russia, in 1818. 
His family was old and noble, long established on 
generous estates. His boyhood was made unhappy be- 
cause of violent family dissensions. Madame Turge- 
nev, who was notoriously ill-tempered and heartless, is 
pictured with more or less fidelity in the autobiographi- 



374 IVAN TURGENEV 

cal portions of the novelist's works. The boy Ivan 
was given excellent instruction by French tutors, but 
the Russian language, which he afterward made the 
medium of his art, he picked up from servants, since 
it was spoken by no one else in his hearing. 

When he could no longer endure the tyranny of his 
home, he traveled abroad, and studied in the universi- 
ties of Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Berlin. Seldom 
has a novelist been more thoroughly educated and cul- 
tured than Turgenev. To his solid attainments in 
scholarship he added a cultivated taste for music, 
which became for him little less than a passion. His 
first published work was the ,Annals of a Sportsman 
(or A Sportsman s Sketches), thus vaguely named, 
it is said, in order to cover its attack upon the land- 
owners who ill-treated their serfs. It undoubtedly 
helped to effect the emancipation of the serfs at a 
somewhat later date. About the time that the book 
was published (1852), Gogol died; a fervent eulogy 
of the older Russian author brought down upon Turge- 
nev the wrath of the government. He was ordered to 
retire to his estate, and was virtually a prisoner on his 
own land. When freedom was granted, he left Russia 
never to return except for brief visits at long intervals. 
He spent most of his life in Paris, where he wrote the 
greater number of his novels, and where he was much 
beloved by the members of the literary and musical 
circles in which he moved. He never married. His as- 
sociation with the family of Madame Viardot (Paul- 
ine Garcia, a noted singer) was of the closest and most 
cordial, although its exact nature has never been pre- 



A LIVING RELIC 375 

cisely understood. It is reported that he gave to Ma- 
dame Viardot the manuscript of a novel (or a book of 
some sort) the theme of which was his relations with 
herself and her family ; this volume was to be published 
ten years after her death. Madame Viardot died at a 
great age in 1910, her friend Turgenev having died 
nearly thirty years before. In 1920, then, we may ex- 
pect another volume from the hand that contributed so 
much to the literature of an unappreciative country. 

Turgenev's novels are Virgin Soil, Torrents of 
Spring, Smoke, Fathers and Sons, A House of Gentle- 
folk {A Nest of Noblemen), Rudin, On the Eve, and 
The Diary of a Superfluous Man. The student should 
read a number of his short-stories and sketches to dis- 
cover why his technique has been regarded as admir- 
able, and why he deserves the title of "poetic realist. " 



bibliography 
Ivan Turgenev: 

James, Henry: Turgenev. 
James, Henry: Partial Portraits, pp. 289-323. 
Turner, C. E. : Modern Novelists of Russia. 
Phelps, W. L. : Essays on Russian Novelists. 
Zimmern, Helen : Half Hours with Foreign Novelists. 
Bourget, Paul : Nouveaux Essais de Psychologie con- 

temporaine. 
Baring, Maurice: Landmarks in Russian Literature. 
Waliszewski, K. : Russian Literature. 

Stories by Turgenev: 
A Lear of the Steppes. 
The Jew. 



376 IVAN TURGENEV 

The Duellist. 

Mumu. 

Asya. 

Clara Militch. 

The Tryst. 

Kasyan from the Metcha. 

The Inn. 

A Desperate Character. 

Punin and Baburin. 

Three Portraits. 

A Strange Story. 

YakofT PasnynkofT. 

The Watch. 

The Song of Love Triumphant. 



THE MONKEY'S PAW*/ 
By W. W. Jacobs 



Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small 
parlor of Lakesnam Villa the blinds were drawn and 
the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, 
the former, who possessed ideas about the game in- 
volving radical changes, putting his king into such 
sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked 
comment from the white-haired old lady knitting plac- 
idly by the fire. 

"Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having 
seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably 
desirous of preventing his son from seeing it. 

"I'm listenings' said the latter, grimly surveying the 
board as he stretched out his hand. "Check." 

"I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said 
his father, with hii hand poised over the board. 

"Mate," replied tfte son. 

"That's the wors\of living so far out," bawled Mr. 
White, with sudden ^nd unlooked-for violence; "of all 
the beastly, slushy, ot^-of-the-way places to live in, this 

*Used by permission cf Dodd, Mead and Company, from 
The Lady of the Barge, b) W. W. Jacobs. 

377 



378 W. W. JACOBS 

is the worst. Pathway's a bog, and the road's a tor- 
rent. I don't know what people are thinking about. 
I suppose because only two houses on the road are let, 
they think it doesn't matter." 

''Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly; "per- 
haps you'll win the next one." 

Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to inter- 
cept a knowing glance between mother and son. The 
words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin 
in his thin gray beard. 

"There he is," said Herbert White, as the gate 
banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the 
door. 

The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening 
the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. 
The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that 
Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" and coughed gently as 
her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly 
man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage. 

"Sergeant-Ma j or Morris," he said, irtroducing him. 

The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the 
proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while 
his host got out whisky and tumblers and stood a small 
copper kettle on the fire. 

At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he be- 
gan to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager 
interest this visitor from distant j;arts, as he squared 
his broad shoulders in the chair ?nd spoke of strange 
scenes and doughty deeds, of vars and plagues and 
strange peoples. 

"Twenty-one years of it," sad Mr. White, nodding 



THE MONKEY'S PAW 379 

at his wife and son. "When he went away he was a 
slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him." 

"He don't look to have taken much harm," said Mrs. 
White politely. 

"I'd like to go to India myself," said the old man, 
"just to look round a bit, you know." 

"Better where you are," said the sergeant-major, 
shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and 
sighing softly, shook it again. 

"I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and 
jugglers," said the old man. "What was that you 
started telling me the other day about a monkey's paw 
or something, Morris?" 

"Nothing," said the soldier hastily. "Leastways, 
nothing worth hearing." 

"Monkey's paw ?" said Mrs. White curiously. 

"Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, 
perhaps," said the sergeant-major off-handedly. 

His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The 
visitor absent-mindedly put his empty glass to his lips 
and then set it down again. His host filled it for him. 

"To look at," said the sergeant-major, fumbling in 
his pocket, "it's just an ordinary little paw, dried to a 
mummy." 

He took something out of his pocket and proffered 
it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, 
taking it, examined it curiously. 

"And what is there special about it?" inquired Mr. 
White, as he took it from his son, and having ex- 
amined it, placed it upon the table. 

"It had a spell put on it by an old fakir," said the 



380 W. W. JACOBS 

sergeant-major, "a very holy man. He wanted to 
show that fate ruled people's lives, and that those who 
interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a 
spell on it so that three separate men could each have 
three wishes from it" 

His manner was so impressive that his hearers were 
conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat. 

"Well, why don't you have three, sir ?" said Herbert 
White cleverly. 

The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age 
is wont to regard presumptuous youth. "I have," he 
said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened. 

"And did you really have the three wishes granted ?" 
asked Mrs. White. 

"I did," said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped 
against his strong teeth. 

"And has anybody else wished?" inquired the old 
lady. 

"The first man had his three wishes, yes," was the 
reply. "I don't know what the first two were, but the 
third was for death. That's how I got the paw." 

His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the 
group. 

"If you've had your three wishes, it's no good to you 
now, then, Morris," said the old man at last. "What 
do you keep it for?" 

The soldier shook his head. "Fancy, I suppose," he 
said slowly. "I did have some idea of selling it, but 
I don't think I will. It has caused enough mischief 
already. Besides, people won't buy. They think it's 
a fairy tale, some of them, and those who do think 



THE MONKEY'S PAW 381 

anything of it want to try it first and pay me after- 
ward." 

"If you could have another three wishes," said the 
old man, eyeing him keenly, "would you have them?" 

"I don't know," said the other. "I don't know." 

He took the paw, and dangling it between his front 
finger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. 
White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched 
it off. 

"Better let it burn," said the soldier solemnly. 

"If you don't want it, Morris," said the old man, 
"give it to me." 

"I won't," said his friend doggedly. "I threw it on 
the fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what hap- 
pens. Pitch it on the fire again, like a sensible man." 

The other shook his head and examined his new pos- 
session closely. "How do you do it?" he inquired. 

"Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud," 
said the sergeant-major, "but I warn you of the con- 
sequences." 

"Sounds like the Arabian Nights/' said Mrs. White, 
as she rose and began to set the supper. "Don't you 
think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?" 

Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and 
then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, 
with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the 
arm. 

"If you must wish," he said gruffly, "wish for some- 
thing sensible." 

Mr. White dropped it back into his pocket, and plac- 
ing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the 



382 W. W. JACOBS 

business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, 
and afterward the three sat listening in an enthralled 
fashion to a second installment of the soldier's adven- 
tures in India. 

"If the tale about the monkey paw is not more truth- 
ful than those he has been telling us," said Herbert, 
as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for 
him to catch the last train, "we shan't make much out 
of it." 

"Did you give him anything for it, father?" in- 
quired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely. 

"A trifle," said he, coloring slightly. "He didn't 
want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me 
again to throw it away." 

"Likely," said Herbert, with pretended horror. 
"Why, we're going to be rich, and famous, and happy. 
Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with ; then you 
can't be henpecked." 

He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned 
Mrs. White armed with an antimacassar. 

Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed 
it dubiously. "I don't know what to wish for, and 
that's a fact," he said slowly. "It seems to me I've got 
all I want." 

"If you only cleared the house, you'd be quite happy, 
wouldn't you?" said Herbert, with his hand on his 
shoulder. "Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then ; 
that'll just do it." 

His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own cre- 
dulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn 



THE MONKEY'S PAW 383 

face somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat 
down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords. 

"I wish for two hundred pounds," said the old man 
distinctly. 

A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, in- 
terrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His 
wife and son ran toward him. 

"It moved," he cried, with a glance of disgust at the 
object as it lay on the floor. "As I wished it twisted 
in my hands like a snake." 

"Well, I don't see the money," said his son, as he 
picked it up and placed it on the table, "and I bet I 
never shall." 

"It must have been your fancy, father," said his 
wife, regarding him anxiously. 

He shook his head. "Never mind, though; there's 
no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same." 

They sat down by the fire again while the two men 
finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher 
than ever, and the old man started nervously at the 
sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual 
and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until 
the old couple rose to retire for the night. 

"I expect you'll find the cash tied up in a big bag 
in the middle of your bed," said Herbert, as he bade 
them good night, "and something horrible squatting up 
on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket 
your ill-gotten gains." 



384 W. W. JACOBS 



II. 



In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as 
it streamed over the breakfast table Herbert laughed 
at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesome- 
ness about the room which it had lacked on the pre- 
vious night, and the dirty, shriveled little paw was 
pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which be- 
tokened no great belief in its virtues. 

"I suppose all old soldiers are the same," said Mrs. 
White. "The idea of our listening to such nonsense! 
How could wishes be granted in these days? And if 
they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, 
father?" 

"Might drop on his head from the sky," said the 
frivolous Herbert. 

"Morris said the things happened so naturally," said 
his father, "that you might if you so wished attribute 
it to coincidence." 

"Well, don't break into the money before I come 
back," said Herbert, as he rose from the table. "I'm 
afraid it'll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and 
we shall have to disown you." 

His mother laughed, and following him to the door, 
watched him down the road, and returning to the 
breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her 
husband's credulity. All of which did not prevent her 
from scurrying to the door at the postman's knock, 
nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to 
retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she 
found that the post brought a tailor's bill. 



THE MONKEY'S PAW 385 

"Herbert will have some more of his funny re- 
marks, I expect, when he comes home," she said, as 
they sat at dinner. 

"I dare say," said Mr. White, pouring himself out 
some beer; "but for all that, the thing moved in my 
hand ; that I'll swear to." 

"You thought it did," said the old lady soothingly. 

"I say it did," replied the other. "There was no 
thought about it; I had just What's the matter?" 

His wife made no reply. She was watching the 
mysterious movements of a man outside, who, peering 
in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be 
trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental con- 
nection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that 
the stranger was well dressed and wore a silk hat of 
glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate, 
and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood 
with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution 
flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White at 
the same moment placed her hands behind her, and 
hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put 
that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of 
her chair. 

She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, 
into the room. He gazed furtively at Mrs. White, 
and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady 
apologized for the appearance of the room, and her 
husband's coat, a garment which he usually reserved 
for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her 
sex would permit for him to broach his business, but 
he was at first strangely silent. 



386 W. W. JACOBS 

"I — was asked to call," he said at last, and stooped 
and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. "I 
come from Maw and Meggins." 

The old lady started. "Is anything the matter?" she 
asked breathlessly. "Has anything happened to Her- 
bert? What is it? What is it?" 

Her husband interposed. "There, there, mother," 
he said hastily. "Sit down, and don't jump to conclu- 
sions. You've not brought bad news, I'm sure, sir," 
and he eyed the other wistfully. 

"I'm sorry " began the visitor. 

"Is he hurt?" demanded the mother. 

The visitor bowed in assent. "Badly hurt," he said 
quietly, "but he is not in any pain." 

"Oh, thank God!" said the old woman, clasping her 
hands. "Thank God for that ! Thank " 

She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of 
the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful 
confirmation of her fears in the other's averted face. 
She caught her breath, and turning to her slower- 
witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. 
There was a long silence. 

"He was caught in the machinery," said the visitor 
at length, in a low voice. 

"Caught in the machinery," repeated Mr. White, in 
a dazed fashion, "yes." 

He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking 
his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had 
been wont to do in their old courting days nearly forty 
years before. 



THE MONKEY'S PAW 387 

"He was the only one left to us," he said, turning 
gently to the visitor. "It is hard." 

The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the 
window. "The firm wished me to convey their sincere 
sympathy with you in your great loss," he said, with- 
out looking round. "I beg that you will understand 
I am only their servant and merely obeying orders." 

There was no reply; the old woman's face was 
white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on 
the husband's face was a look such as his friend the 
sergeant might have carried into his first action. 

"I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all 
responsibility," continued the other. "They admit no 
liability at all, but in consideration of your son's ser- 
vices they wish to present you with a certain sum as 
compensation." 

Mr. White dropped his wife's hand, and rising to 
his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. 
His dry lips shaped the words, "How much?" 

"Two hundred pounds," was the answer. 

Unconscious of his wife's shriek, the old man smiled 
faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and 
dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor. 



III. 



In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, 
the old people buried their dead, and came back to a 
house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over 
so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and 



388 W. W. JACOBS 

remained in a state of expectation as though of some- 
thing else to happen — something else which was to 
lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear. 

But the days passed, and expectation gave place to 
resignation — the hopeless resignation of the old, some r 
times miscalled apathy. Sometimes they hardly ex- 
changed a word, for now they had nothing to talk 
about, and their days were long to weariness. 

It was about a week after that that the old man, 
waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand 
and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, 
and the sound of subdued weeping came from the win- 
dow. He raised himself in bed and listened. 

"Come back," he said tenderly. "You will be cold." 

"It is colder for my son," said the old woman, and 
wept afresh. 

The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The 
bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He 
dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry 
from his wife awoke him with a start. 

"The monkey's paw !" she cried wildly. "The mon- 
key's paw !" 

He started up in alarm. "Where? Where is it? 
What's the matter?" 

She came stumbling across the room toward him. 
"I want it," she said quietly. "You've not destroyed 
it?" 

"It's in the parlor, on the bracket," he replied, mar- 
veling. "Why?" 

She cried and laughed together, and bending over, 
kissed his cheek. 



THE MONKEY'S PAW 389 

"I only just thought of it," she said hysterically. 
"Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you 
think of it?" 

"Think of what?" he questioned. 

"The other two wishes," she replied rapidly. "We've 
only had one." 

"Was not that enough?" he demanded fiercely. 

"No," she cried triumphantly ; "we'll have one more. 
Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive 
again." 

The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from 
his quaking limbs. "Good God, you are mad!" he 
cried, aghast. 

"Get it," she panted ; "get it quickly, and wish 

Oh, my boy, my boy!" 

Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. "Get 
back to bed," he said unsteadily. "You don't know 
what you are saying." 

"We had the first wish granted," said the old woman 
feverishly; "why not the second?" 

"A coincidence," stammered the old man. 

"Go and get it and wish," cried the old woman, and 
dragged him toward the door. 

He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to 
the parlor, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman 
was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken 
wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he 
could escape from the room seized upon him, and he 
caught his breath as he found that he had lost the di- 
rection of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt 
his way round the table, and groped along the wall 



390 W. W. JACOBS 

until he found himself in the small passage with the 
unwholesome thing in his hand. 

Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered 
the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears 
seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was 
afraid of her. 

"Wish !" she cried, in a strong voice. 

"It is foolish and wicked,'' he faltered. 

"Wish!" repeated his wife. 

He raised his hand. "I wish my son alive again." 

The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it 
shudderingly. Then he sank trembling into a chair 
as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the 
window and raised the blind. 

He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing 
occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering 
through the window. The candle end, which had burnt 
below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing 
pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with 
a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, 
with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of 
the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or 
two afterward the old woman came silently and apa- 
thetically beside him. 

Neither spoke, but both lay silently listening to the 
ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky 
mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness 
was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing 
up his courage, the husband took the box of matches, 
and striking one, went downstairs for a candle. 

At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he 



THE MONKEY'S PAW 391 

paused to strike another, and at the same moment a 
knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, 
sounded on the front door. 

The matches fell from his hand. He stood motion- 
less, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. 
Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and 
closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded 
through the house. 

"What's that?" cried the old woman, starting up. 

"A rat," said the old man, in shaking tones — "a rat. 
It passed me on the stairs." 

His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock re- 
sounded through the house. 

"It's Herbert !" she screamed. "It's Herbert !" 

She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, 
and catching her by the arm, held her tightly. 

"What are you going to do ?" he whispered hoarsely. 

"It's my boy; it's Herbert!" she cried, struggling 
mechanically. "I forgot it was two miles away. What 
are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the 
door." 

"For God's sake don't let it in," cried the old man, 
trembling. 

"You're afraid of your own son," she cried, strug^ 
gling. "Let me go. I'm coming, Herbert; I'm com- 
ing." 

There was another knock, and another. The old 
woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from 
the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and 
called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. 
He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt 



392 W. W. JACOBS 

drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the 
old woman's voice, strained and panting. 

"The bolt," she cried loudly. "Come down. I can't 
reach it." 

But her husband was on his hands and knees groping 
wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could 
only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect 
fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, 
and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it 
down in the passage against the door. He heard the 
creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the 
same moment he found the monkey's paw, and fran- 
tically breathed his third and last wish. 

The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes 
of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn 
back and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the 
staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and 
misery from his wife gave him courage to run down 
to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street 
lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted 
road. 



William Wymark Jacobs. 

One of the best known writers of short-stories at 
the present day is the English author, Mr. William 
Wymark Jacobs. Biographical facts concerning Mr. 
Jacobs are meager, but we are informed that he was 
born in London in 1863, and that from 1883 to 1899 
he was employed in the English civil service. He 



THE MONKEY'S PAW 393 

found time, in the intervals of his labors, to practice 
writing the short-story, and sold his tales for whatever 
small sums they would bring. His ability and perse- 
verance were at last rewarded by the success of his 
book of diverting stories, Many Cargoes, published 
in 1896. Light Freights and Odd Craft were the 
titles of the volumes which followed, containing a 
group of humorous stories that set the public to laugh- 
ing and wishing for more. 

From that time there has been no cessation of the 
demand for Mr. Jacobs' admirable tales. They deal 
chiefly with sailors, longshoremen, or masters of 
barges, and exhibit these quaint characters in the light 
of original and entertaining personages, whose odd 
dialect gives savor to their merry adventures. The 
titles of the stories afford a hint of their contents : 
Sailors' Knots; Short Cruises; Ship's Company; Cap- 
tains All; and — perhaps the most widely read — The 
Lady of the Barge. Several plays have helped to 
establish Mr. Jacobs' reputation, his In the Library 
having been especially well received. The Monkey's 
Paw, here given, though differing somewhat from the 
author's usual type of story, has been highly praised 
by both English and American critics. 

bibliography 

William Wymark Jacobs: 
Critic, 46 : 390. 
Academy, 52:496. 
Bookman, 25:458 (Portrait). 
Bookbuyer, 24 : 186. 



394 W. W. JACOBS 

Strand, 16 : 676. 
Book News, 19: 55. 
Munsey, 29:612 (Portrait). 

Stories by Jacobs: 

The Lady of the Barge. 
Cupboard Love. 
The Changeling. 
A Distant Relative. 
The Grey Parrot. 
Matrimonial Openings. 
Sentence Deferred. 
The Skipper's Wooing. 
Two of a Trade. 
Smoked Skipper. 
A Safety Match. 
Friends in Need. 
Good Intentions. 
A Change of Treatment. 

Stories of the Supernatural: 

Wandering Willie's Tale Sir Walter Scott. 

The Upper Berth F. Marion Crawford. 

The Bottle Imp Robert Louis Stevenson. 

The Queen of Spades Alexander Poushkin. 

They Rudyard Kipling. 

The Phantom Rickshaw Rudyard Kipling. 

The Apparition of Mrs. Veal. Daniel Defoe. 

The Tall W r oman Pedro de Alargon. 

The Turn of the Screw. . . .Henry James. 
The Shadows on the Wall. . . Mary E. Wilkins. 
Peter Rugg, the Missing Man . William Austin. 
The Rider on the White Horse. Theodor Storm. 

The Mummy's Foot Theophile Gautier. 

The Lifted Veil. George Eliot. 

The Black Badger Arthur Morrison. 

Teacher and Taught, Arthur Morrison. 



A CHRISTMAS GUEST* 

By Selma Lagerlof 

One of those who had lived the life of a pensioner 
at Ekeby was little Ruster, who could transpose music 
and play the flute. He was of low origin and poor, 
without home and without relations. Hard times 
came to him when the company of pensioners were 
dispersed. 

He then had no horse nor carriole, no fur coat nor 
red-painted luncheon-basket. He had to go on foot 
from house to house and carry his belongings tied in a 
blue striped cotton handkerchief. He buttoned his 
coat all the way up to his chin, so that no one should 
need to know in what condition his shirt and waistcoat 
were, and in its deep pockets he kept his most precious 
possessions: his flute taken to pieces, his flat brandy 
bottle, and his music-pen. 

His profession was to copy music, and if it had been 
as in the old days, there would have been no lack of 
work for him. But with every passing year music 
was less practiced in Varmland. The guitar, with its 
mouldy, silken ribbon and its worn screws, and the 
dented horn, with faded tassels and cord, were put 

* From Invisible Links, published by Little, Brown and Com- 
pany, Boston. 

395 



396 SELMA LAGERLOF 

away in the lumber-room in the attic, and the dust 
settled inches deep on the long, iron-bound violin 
boxes. Yet the less little Ruster had to do with flute 
and music-pen, so much the more must he turn to the 
brandy flask, and at last he became quite a drunkard. 
It was a great pity. 

He was still received at the manor houses as an old 
friend, but there were complaints when he came and 
joy when he went. There was an odor of dirt and 
brandy about him, and if he had only a couple of 
glasses of wine or one toddy, he grew confused and 
told unpleasant stories. He was the torment of the 
hospitable houses. 

One Christmas he came to Lofdala, where Lilje- 
krona, the great violinist, had his home. Liljekrona 
had also been one of the pensioners of Ekeby, but 
after the death of the major's wife, he returned to his 
quiet farm and remained there. Ruster came to him a 
few days before Christmas, in the midst of all the 
preparations, and asked for work. Liljekrona gave 
him a little copying to keep him busy. 

"You ought to have let him go immediately," said 
his wife; "now he will certainly take so long with that 
that we will be obliged to keep him over Christmas." 

"He must be somewhere," answered Liljekrona. 

And he offered Ruster toddy and brandy, sat with 
him, and lived over again with him the whole Ekeby 
time. But he was out of spirits and disgusted by him, 
like everyone else, although he would not let it be seen, 
for old friendship and hospitality were sacred to him. 

In Liljekrona's house for three weeks now they had 



A CHRISTMAS GUEST 39" 

been preparing to receive Christmas. They had been 
living in discomfort and bustle, had sat up with dip- 
lights and torches till their eyes grew red, had been 
frozen in the outhouse with the salting of meat and 
in the brewhouse with the brewing of beer. But both 
the mistress and the servants gave themselves up to it 
all without grumbling. 

When all the preparations were done and the holy 
evening come, a sweet enchantment would sink down 
over them. Christmas would loosen all tongues, so 
that jokes and jests, rhymes and merriment would flow 
of themselves without effort. Everyone's feet would 
wish to twirl in the dance, and from memory's dark 
corners words and melodies would rise, although no 
one could believe that they were there. And then 
everyone was so good, so good ! 

Now when Ruster came, the whole household at 
Lofdala thought that Christmas was spoiled. The 
mistress and the older children and the old servants 
were all of the same opinion. Ruster caused them 
a suffocating disgust. They were moreover afraid 
that when he and Liljekrona began to rake up the old 
memories, the artist's blood would flame up in the great 
violinist and his home would lose him. Formerly he 
had not been able to remain long at home. 

No one can describe how they loved their master 
on the farm, since they had had him with them a couple 
of years. And what he had to give! How much he 
was to his home, especially at Christmas ! He did not 
take his place on any sofa or rocking-stool, but on a 
high, narrow wooden bench in the corner of the fire- 



398 SELMA LAGERLOF 

place. When he was settled there he started off" on 
adventures. He traveled about the earth, climbed up 
to the stars, and even higher. He played and talked by 
turns, and the whole household gathered about him and 
listened. Life grew proud and beautiful when the 
richness of that one soul shone on it. 

Therefore they loved him as they loved Christmas 
time, pleasure, the spring sun. And when little Rustef 
came, their Christmas peace was destroyed. They had 
worked in vain if he was coming to tempt away their 
master. It was unjust that the drunkard should sit at 
the Christmas table in a happy house and spoil the 
Christmas pleasure. 

On the forenoon of Christmas Eve little Ruster had 
his music written out, and he said something about 
going, although of course he meant to stay. 

Liljekrona had been influenced by the general feel- 
ing, and therefore said quite lukewarmly and indif- 
ferently that Ruster had better stay where he was over 
Christmas. 

Little Ruster was inflammable and proud. He 
twirled his mustache and shook back the black artist's 
hair that stood like a dark cloud over his head. What 
did Liljekrona mean? Should he stay because he had 
nowhere else to go? Oh, only think how they stood 
and waited for him in the big iron works in the parish 
of Bro! The guest-room was in order, the glass of 
welcome filled. He was in great haste. He only did 
not know to which he ought to go first. 

"Very well/' answered Liljekrona, "you may go if 
you will." 



A CHRISTMAS GUEST 399 

After dinner little Ruster borrowed horse and sleigh, 
coat and furs. The stable boy from Lofdala was to 
take him to some place in Bro and drive quickly back, 
for it threatened snow. 

No one believed that he was expected, or that there 
was a single place in the neighborhood where he was 
welcome. But they were so anxious to be rid of him 
that they put the thought aside and let him depart. 
"He wished it himself," they said; and then they 
thought that now they would be glad. 

But when they gathered in the dining-room at five 
o'clock to drink tea and to dance round the Christmas 
tree, Liljekrona was silent and out of spirits. He did 
not seat himself on the bench; he touched neither tea 
nor punch; he could not remember any polka; the 
violin was out of order. Those who could play and 
dance had to do it without him. 

Then his wife grew uneasy; the children were dis- 
contented, everything in the house went wrong. It 
was the most lamentable Christmas Eve. 

The porridge turned sour ; the candles sputtered ; the 
wood smoked; the wind stirred up the snow and blew 
bitter cold into the rooms. The stable boy who had 
driven Ruster did not come home. The cook wept; 
the maids scolded. 

Finally Liljekrona remembered that no sheaves had 
been put out for the sparrows, and he complained aloud 
of all the women about him who abandoned old cus- 
tom and were newfangled and heartless. They under- 
stood well enough that what tormented him was re- 



4<to SELMA LAGERLOF 

morse that he had let little Ruster go away from his 
home on Christmas Eve. 

After a while he went to his room, shut the door, 
and began to play as he had not played since he had 
ceased roaming. It was full of hate and scorn, full 
of longing and revolt. You thought to bind me, but 
you must forge new fetters. You thought to make me 
as small-minded as yourselves, but I turn to larger 
things, to the open. Commonplace people, slaves of 
the home, hold me prisoner if it is in your power! 

When his wife heard the music, she said: "To- 
morrow he is gone, if God does not work a miracle in 
the night. Our inhospitableness has brought on just 
what we thought we could avoid." 

In the meantime little Ruster drove about in the 
snow-storm. He went from one house to the other 
and asked if there was any work for him to do, but 
he was not received anywhere. They did not even ask 
him to get out of the sledge. Some had their houses 
full of guests, others were going away on Christmas 
Day. "Drive to the next neighbor," they all said. 

He could come and spoil the pleasure of an ordinary 
day, but not of Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve came 
but once a year, and the children had been rejoicing 
in the thought of it all the autumn. They could not 
put that man at a table where there were children. 
Formerly they had been glad to see him, but not since 
he had become a drunkard. Where should they put 
the fellow, moreover? The servants' room was too 
plain and the guest-room too fine. 

So little Ruster had to drive from house to house in 



A CHRISTMAS GUEST 40T 

the blinding snow. His wet mustache hung limply 
down over his mouth; his eyes were bloodshot and 
blurred, but the brandy was blown out of his brain. 
He began to wonder and to be amazed. Was it pos- 
sible, was it possible that no one wished to receive 
him? 

Then all at once he saw himself. He saw how mis- 
erable and degraded he was, and he understood that 
he was odious to people. "It is the end of me," he 
thought. "No more copying of music, no more flute- 
playing. No one on earth needs me ; no one has com- 
passion on me." 

The storm whirled and played, tore apart the drifts 
and piled them up again, took a pillar of snow in its 
arms and danced out into the plain, lifted one flake up 
to the clouds and chased another down into a ditch. 
"It is so, it is so," said little Ruster; "while one dances 
and whirls it is play, but when one must be buried in 
the drift and forgotten, it is sorrow and grief." But 
down they all have to go, and now it was his turn. 
To think that he had now come to the end ! 

He no longer asked where the man was driving him ; 
he thought that he was driving in the land of death. 

Little Ruster made no offerings to the gods that 
night. He did not curse flute-playing or the life of a 
pensioner ; he did not think that it had been better for 
him if he had plowed the earth or sewn shoes. But 
he mourned that he was now a worn-out instrument, 
which pleasure could no longer use. He complained of 
no one, for he knew that when the horn is cra*cked and 
the guitar will not stay in tune, they must go. He be- 



402 SELMA LAGERLOF 

came all at once a very humble man. He understood 
that it was the end of him, on this Christmas Eve. 
Hunger and cold would destroy him, for he under- 
stood nothing, was good for nothing, and had no 
friends. 

The sledge stops, and suddenly it is light about him, 
and he hears friendly voices, and there is some one who 
is helping him into a warm room, and some one who is 
pouring warm tea into him. His coat is pulled off him, 
and several people cry that he is welcome, and warm 
hands rub life into his benumbed fingers. 

He was so confused by it all that he did not come to 
his senses for nearly a quarter of an hour. He could 
not possibly comprehend that he had come back to 
Lofdala. He had not been at all conscious that the 
stable boy had grown tired of driving about in the 
storm and had turned home. 

Nor did he understand why he was now so well 
received in Liljekrona's house. He could not know 
that Liljekrona's wife understood what a weary jour- 
ney he had made that Christmas Eve, when he had 
been turned away from every door where he had 
knocked. She felt such compassion on him that she 
forgot her own troubles. 

Liljekrona went on with the wild playing up in his 
room; he did not know that Ruster had come. The 
latter sat meanwhile in the dining-room with the wife 
and the children. The servants, who used also to be 
there on Christmas Eve, had moved out into the 
kitchen away from their mistress's trouble. 

The mistress of the house lost no time in setting 



A CHRISTMAS GUEST 403 

Ruster to work. "You hear, I suppose," she said, 
"that Liljekrona does nothing but play all the even- 
ing, and I must attend to setting the table and the 
food. The children are quite forsaken. You must 
look after these two smallest." 

Children were the kind of people with whom little 
Ruster had had least intercourse. He had met them 
neither in the bachelor's wing nor in the campaign 
tent, neither in wayside inns nor on the highways. 
He was almost shy of them, and did not know what 
he ought to say that was fine enough for them. 

He took out his flute and taught them how to 
finger the stops and holes. There was one of four 
years and one of six. They had a lesson on the 
flute and were deeply interested in it. "This is A," 
he said, "and this is C," and then he blew the notes. 
Then the young people wished to know what kind of 
an A and C it was that was to be played. 

Ruster took out his score and made a few notes. 

"No," they said, "that is not right." And they ran 
away for an A B C book. 

Little Ruster began to hear their alphabet. They 
knew it and they did not know it. What they knew 
was not very much. Ruster grew eager; he lifted 
the little boys up, each on one of his knees, and be- 
gan to teach them. Liljekrona's wife went out and 
in and listened quite in amazement. It sounded like 
a game, and the children were laughing the whole 
time, but they learned. 

Ruster kept on for awhile, but he was absent from 
what he was doing. He was turning over the old 



404 SELMA LAGERLOF 

thoughts from out in the storm. It was good and 
pleasant, but nevertheless it was the end of him. He 
was worn out. He ought to be thrown away. And 
all of a sudden he put his hands before his face and 
began to weep. 

Liljekrona's wife came quickly up to him. 

"Ruster," she said, "I can understand that you 
think that all is over for you. You cannot make a 
living with your music, and you are destroying your- 
self with brandy. But it is not the end, Ruster." 

"Yes," sobbed the little flute-player. 

"Do you see that to sit as to-night with the chil- 
dren, that would be something for you? If you would 
teach children to read and write, you would be wel- 
comed everywhere. That is no less important an in- 
strument on which to play, Ruster, than flute and vio- 
lin. Look at them, Ruster!" 

She placed the two children in front of him, and 
he looked up, blinking as if he had looked at the 
sun. It seemed as if his little, blurred eyes could 
not meet those of the children, which were big, clear, 
and innocent. 

"Look at them, Ruster!" repeated Liljekrona's 
wife. 

"I dare not," said Ruster, for it was like a pur- 
gatory to look through the beautiful child eyes to 
the unspotted beauty of their souls. 

Liljekrona's wife laughed loud and joyously. 
"Then you must accustom yourself to them, Ruster. 
You can stay in my house as schoolmaster this 
year." 



A CHRISTMAS GUEST 405 

Liljekrona heard his wife laugh and came out of 
his room. 

"What is it?" he said. "What is it?" 

"Nothing," she answered, "but that Ruster has 
come again, and that I have engaged him as school- 
master for our little boys." 

Liljekrona was quite amazed. "Do you dare?" he 
said, "do you dare? Has he promised to give up " 

"No," said the wife; "Ruster has promised noth- 
ing. But there is much about which he must be care- 
ful when he has to look little children in the eyes 
every day. If it had not been Christmas, perhaps 
I would not have ventured ; but when our Lord dared 
to place a little child who was His own son among us 
sinners, so can I also dare to let my little children 
try to save a human soul." 

Liljekrona could not speak, but every feature and 
wrinkle in his face twitched and twisted as always 
when he heard anything noble. 

Then he kissed his wife's hand as gently as a child 
who asks for forgiveness and cried aloud: "All the 
children must come and kiss their mother's hand." 

They did so, and then they had a happy Christmas 
in Liljekrona's house. 



Selma Lagerlof 

Since winning the Nobel prize in 1909, Miss Selma 
Lagerlof has been much talked of outside her own 
country, though for years before she had been re- 
garded with intense admiration by the Swedish people. 



406 SELMA LAGERLOF 

She was born in Varmland, in 1858. When she was 
a child, she stored up in her memory a great number 
of old Scandinavian legends, which fascinated her with 
their romantic impossibilities. Later she went to 
school, where she was, as a young girl, fitted for 
teaching in the elementary grades. Until she was over 
thirty she continued in this work, but all the time she 
was adding to her collection of legends, and planning 
stories which were to be written when leisure came. 

Financial straits forcing the sale of her home neces- 
sitated the securing of money in a considerable sum 
and without delay. At this time (1891) the I dun, a 
Swedish magazine, offered a prize of $1,300 for the 
best novel of a specified length, to be submitted early 
in July. Eight days before the closing of the contest, 
Miss Lagerlof selected five chapters from a "Saga" 
that she had been slowly writing for years, expanded 
and rewrote these, and added forty pages, which she 
finished in the early morning of the last day. In No- 
vember it was announced that she had won the prize. 
The fortunate novel she afterward reconstructed into 
The Saga of Gosta Berling. She now gave up her 
teaching and began to write in earnest. The stories 
which followed — Jerusalem, Miracles of Anti-Christ, 
and several volumes of short-stories — became exceed- 
ingly popular. She was asked to write a book to be 
used as a text in the Swedish schools; the result was 
The Wonderful Adventures of Nils, a fairy-tale geog- 
raphy of a delightful nature, which was later supple- 
mented by a second book of the same sort. 

In May, 1907, at the Linnsean Jubilee, the Uni- 



A CHRISTMAS GUEST 407 

versity of Upsala conferred upon Miss Lagerlof the 
honorary degree of Doctor of Philosophy. A year 
later her fiftieth birthday was celebrated with multi- 
plied and flattering honors. In 1909 the Nobel prize 
was awarded her "for distinguished literary achieve- 
ment." The news came as something of a surprise to 
those outside of Norway and Sweden, especially the 
American people, to whom her simplicity has made 
her seem trivial and unimpassioned. She represents, 
indeed, a return to idealism, after the realism that has 
all but prevailed in Europe for the last thirty years. 
Many of her stories are not devoid of realistic detail, 
but most of them are idealistic in spirit, if not actually 
allegorical and symbolic. The student should read 
several stories from the two volumes entitled The 
Girl from the Marsh Croft, and Invisible Links. A 
Christmas Guest is from Invisible Links. 



bibliography 
Selma Lagerlof: 

Ramsden, Hermione : The New Mysticism in Scandi- 
navia ; Nineteenth Century, 47 : 279. 
Outlook, 70 : 977 ; 89 : 947. 
World's Work, 23 : 416. 
Living Age, 232 : 8. 
Current Literature, 46 : 288. 

Bookman, 13:414 (Portrait); 30:554 (Portrait). 
Independent, 67 : 1458. 

Stories by Miss Lagerlof: 
The Outlaws. 
The Girl from the Marsh Croft. 



4©8 SELMA LAGERLOF 

The Silver Mine. 

The Legend of the Christmas Rose. 

Why the Pope Lived to Be so Old. 

The Fallen King. 

The King's Grave. 

The Air Ship. 

The Musician. 

The Spirit of Fasting and Petter Nord. 

The Romance of a Fisherman's Wife. 

The Wedding March. 

A Story from Jerusalem. 

Stories by Scandinavian Authors: 

Irene Holm H. B. Bang. 

The Phoenix August Strindberg. 

Love and Bread August Strindberg. 

The Rector of Veilbye Steen Steensen Blicher. 

Railroad and Churchyard. . . . Bjornstjerne Bjornson. 
The Father Bjornstjerne Bjornson. 



THE LONG EXILE* 

GOD SEES THE TRUTH BUT WAITS 
By Leo Tolstoi 

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant 
named Ivan Dmitritch Aksyonof. He had two shops 
and a house of his own. 

Aksyonof was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-head- 
ed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When 
quite a young man he had been given to drink, and 
was riotous when he had had too much ; but after he 
married he gave up drinking, except now and then. 

One summer Aksyonof was going to the Nizhny 
Fair, and as he bade good-by to his family his wife 
said to him, "Ivan Dmitritch, do not start to-day; I 
have had a bad dream about you." 

Aksyonof laughed, and said, "You are afraid that 
when I get to the fair I shall go on the spree.' ' 

His wife replied : "I do not know what I am afraid 
of ; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you 
returned from the town, and when you took off your 
cap I saw that your hair was quite gray." 

Aksyonof laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. 

*From Twenty-three Tales, by Leo Tolstoi. By arrangement 
with the publishers, Funk and Wagnalls Company, New York. 

409 



410 LEO TOLSTOI 

"See if I don't sell out all my goods, and bring you 
some presents from the fair." 

So he said good-by to his family, and drove away. 

When he had traveled halfway, he met a merchant 
whom he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the 
night. They had some tea together, and then went 
to bed in adjoining rooms. 

It was not Aksyonof 's habit to sleep late, and, wish- 
ing to travel while it was still cool, he aroused his 
driver before dawn, and told him to put in the horses. 

Then he made his way across to the landlord of the 
inn (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill, 
and continued his journey. 

When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he 
stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksyonof rested 
awhile in the passage of the inn, then he stepped out 
into the porch, and, ordering a samovar* to be 
heated, got out his guitar and began to play. 

Suddenly a troykaf drove up with tinkling bells, and 
an official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He 
came to Aksyonof and began to question him, asking 
him who he was and whence he came. Aksyonof 
answered him fully, and said, "Won't you have some 
tea with me?" But the official went on cross-ques- 
tioning him and asking him, "Where did you spend 
last night? Were you alone, or with a fellow-mer- 
chant? Did you see the other merchant this morn- 
ing? Why did you leave the inn before dawn ?" 

* The samovar ("self -boiler") is an urn in which water can 
be heated and kept on the boil. 
f A .three-horse conveyance, 



THE LONG EXILE 4" 

Aksyonof wondered why he was asked all these 
questions, but he described all that had happened, and 
then added, "Why do you cross-question me as if I 
were a thief or a robber? I am traveling on business 
of my own, and there is no need to question me." 

Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the 
police-officer of this district, and I question you be- 
cause the merchant with whom you spent last night has 
been found with his throat cut. We must search your 
things." 

They entered the house. The soldiers and the 
police-officer unstrapped Aksyonof s luggage and 
searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of 
a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this?" 

Aksyonof looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife 
taken from his bag, he was frightened. 

"How is it there is blood on this knife?" 

Aksyonof tried to answer, but could hardly utter 
a word, and only stammered : "I — I don't know — not 
mine." 

Then the police-officer said, "This morning the mer- 
chant was found in bed with his throat cut. You 
are the only person who could have done it. The 
house was locked from inside, and no one else was 
there. Here is this blood-stained knife in your bag, 
and your face and manner betray you! Tell me 
how you killed him, and how much money you 
stole?" 

Aksyonof swore he had not done it; that he had not 
seen the merchant after they had tea together; that 



412 LEO TOLSTOI 

he had no money except eight thousand roubles* of 
his own, and that the knife was not his. But his voice 
was broken, his face pale, and he trembled with fear 
as though he were guilty. 

The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Ak- 
syonof and to put him in the cart. As they tied his 
feet together and flung him into the cart, Aksyonof 
crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were 
taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest town 
and imprisoned there. Inquiries as to his character 
were made in Vladimir. The merchants and other 
inhabitants of that town said that in former days he 
used to drink and waste his time, but that he was 
a good man. Then the trial came on : he was charged 
with murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and rob- 
bing him of twenty thousand roubles. 

His wife was in despair, and did not know what to 
believe. Her children were all quite small; one was 
a baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she 
went to the town where her husband was in jail. At 
first she was not allowed to see him ; but, after much 
begging, she obtained permission from the officials, 
and was taken to him. When she saw her husband in 
prison dress and in chains, shut up with thieves and 
criminals, she fell down, and did not come to her 
senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to 
her, and sat down near him. She told him of things 
at home, and asked about what had happened to him. 

* The value of the rouble has varied at different times from 
more than three shillings to less than two shillings. For pur- 
poses of ready calculation it may be taken as two shillings. 



THE LONG EXILE 413 

He told her all, and she asked, "What can we do 
now ?" 

"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent 
man perish." 

His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the 
Czar, but that it had not been accepted. 

Aksyonof did not reply, but only looked downcast. 

Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I 
dreamt your hair had turned gray. You remember? 
You should not have started that day." And passing 
her fingers through his hair, she said : "Vanya dearest, 
tell your wife the truth ; was it not you who did it?" 

"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksyonof, and, 
hiding his face in his hands, he began to weep. Then 
a soldier came to say that the wife and children must 
go away ; and Aksyonof said good-by to his family for 
the last time. 

When they were gone, Aksyonof recalled what had 
been said, and when he remembered that his wife also 
had suspected him, he said to himself, "It seems that 
only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone we 
must appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy." 

And Aksyonof wrote no more petitions ; gave up all 
hope, and only prayed to God. 

Aksyonof was condemned to be flogged and sent to 
the mines. So he was flogged with a knout, and when 
the wounds made by the knout were healed, he was 
driven to Siberia with other convicts. 

For twenty-six years Aksyonof lived as a convict in 
Siberia. His hair turned white as snow, and his beard 
grew long, thin and gray. All his mirth went; he 



414 LEO TOLSTOI 

stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never 
laughed, but he often prayed. 

In prison Aksyonof learnt to make boots, and earned 
a little money, with which he bought The Lives of 
the Saints. He read this book when there was light 
enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the prison- 
church he read the lessons and sang in the choir ; for 
his voice was still good. 

The prison authorities liked Aksyonof for his meek- 
ness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him : they 
called him "Grandfather," and 'The Saint." When 
they wanted to petition the prison authorities about 
anything, they always made Aksyonof their spokes- 
man, and when there were quarrels among the prison- 
ers they came to him to put things right, and to judge 
the matter. 

No news reached Aksyonof from his home, and he 
did not even know if his wife and children were still 
alive. 

One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. 
In the evening the old prisoners collected round the 
new ones and asked them what towns or villages they 
came from, and what they were sentenced for. Among 
the rest Aksyonof sat down near the newcomers, and 
listened with downcast air to what was said. 

One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, 
with a closely-cropped gray beard, was telling the 
others what he had been arrested for. 

"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that 
was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused 
of stealing. I said I had only taken it to get home 



THE LONG EXILE 4t5 

quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the driver 
was a personal friend of mine. So I said, 'It's all 
right.' 'No,' said they, 'you stole it.' But how 
or where I stole it they could not say. I once really 
did something wrong, and ought by rights to have 
come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. 
Now I have been sent here for nothing at all. . . . 
Eh, but it's lies I'm telling you; I've been to Siberia 
before, but I did not stay long." 

"Where are you from?" asked some one. 

"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My 
name is Makar, and they also call me Semyonitch." 

Aksyonof raised his head and said: "Tell me, 
Semyonitch, do you know anything of the merchants 
Aksyonof, of Vladimir ? Are they still alive ?" 

"Know them! Of course I do. The Aksyonof s are 
rich, though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like 
ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did 
you come here?" 

Aksyonof did not like to speak of his misfortune. 
He only sighed, and said, "For my sins I have been in 
prison these twenty-six years." 

"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonitch. 

But Aksyonof only said, "Well, well — I must have 
deserved it!" He would have said no more, but his 
companions told the newcomer how Aksyonof came to 
be in Siberia: how some one had killed a merchant, 
and had put a knife among Aksyonof 's things, and 
Aksyonof had been unjustly condemned. 

When Makar Semyonitch heard this, he looked at 
Akysonof, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, 



416 LEO TOLSTOI 

"Well, this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But 
how old you've grown, Gran'dad !" 

The others asked him why he was so surprised, and 
where he had seen Aksyonof before; but Makar 
Semyonitch did not reply. He only said: "It's won- 
derful that we should meet here, lads !" 

These words made Aksyonof wonder whether this 
man knew who had killed the merchant; so he said, 
"Perhaps, Semyonitch, you have heard of that affair, 
or maybe you've seen me before?" 

"How could I help hearing? The world's full of 
rumors. But it's long ago, and I've forgotten what 
I heard." 

"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?" 
asked Aksyonof. 

Makar Semyonitch laughed, and replied, "It must 
have been him in whose bag the knife was found! If 
some one else hid the knife there, 'He's not a thief till 
he's caught,' as the saying is. How could anyone 
put a knife into your bag while it was under your 
head ? It would surely have woke you up ?" 

When Aksyonof heard these words, he felt sure this 
was the man who had killed the merchant. He rose 
and went away. All that night Aksyonof lay awake. 
He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of images rose 
in his mind. There was the image of his wife as she 
was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He 
saw her as if she were present ; her face and her eyes 
rose before him ; he heard her speak and laugh. Then 
he saw his children, quite little, as they were at that 
time : one with a little cloak on, another at his mother's 



THE LONG EXILE 417 

breast. And then he remembered himself as he used 
to be — young and merry. He remembered how he sat 
playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was 
arrested, and how free from care he had been. He 
saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the 
executioner, and the people standing around; the 
chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years of his 
prison life, and his premature old age. The thought 
of it all made him so wretched that he was ready to 
kill himself. 

"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksyonof. 
And his anger was so great against Makar Semyonitch 
that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should 
perish for it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but 
could get no peace. During the day he did not go near 
Makar Semyonitch, nor even look at him. 

A fortnight passed in this way. Aksyonof could not 
sleep at nights, and was so miserable that he did not 
know what to do. 

One night as he was walking about the prison he 
noticed some earth that came rolling out from under 
one of the shelves on which the prisoners slept. He 
stopped to see what it was. Suddenly Makar Sem- 
yonitch crept out from under the shelf, and looked up 
at Aksyonof with frightened face. Aksyonof tried to 
pass without looking at him, but Makar seized his hand 
and told him that he had dug a hole under the wall, 
getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high- 
boots, and emptying it out every day on the road 
when the prisoners were driven to their work. 

"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get 



418 LEO TOLSTOI 

out too. If you blab they'll flog the life out of me, 
but I will kill you first." 

Aksyonof trembled with anger as he looked at his 
enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, "I have no 
wish to escape, and you have no need to kill me ; you 
killed me long ago ! As to telling of you — I may do so 
or not, as God shall direct." 

Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, 
the convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the 
prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots. The 
prison was searched, and the tunnel found. The 
Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to 
find out who had dug the hole. They all denied any 
knowledge of it. Those who knew would not betray 
Makar Semyonitch, knowing he would be flogged al- 
most to death. At last the Governor turned to Aks- 
yonof, whom he knew to be a just man, and said: 

"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, 
who dug the hole?" 

Makar Semyonitch stood as if he were quite un- 
concerned, looking at the Governor and not so much as 
glancing at Aksyonof. Aksyonof's lips and hands 
trembled, and for a long time he could not utter a 
word. He thought, "Why should I screen him who 
ruined my life ? Let him pay for what I have suffered. 
But if I tell, they will probably flog the life out of him, 
and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, 
what good would it be to me ?" 

"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell us 
the truth : who has been digging under the wall ?" 

Aksyonof glanced at Makar Semyonitch, and said, 



THE LONG EXILE 419 

"I cannot say, your honor. It is not God's will that 
I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am in 
your hands." 

However much the Governor tried, Aksyonof would 
say no more, and so the matter had to be left. 

That night, when Aksyonof was lying on his bed 
and just beginning to doze, some one came quietly 
and sat down on his bed. He peered through the 
darkness and recognized Makar. 

"What more do you want of me?" asked Aksyonof. 
"Why have you come here?" 

Makar Semyonitch was silent. So Aksyonof sat up 
and said, "What do you want? Go away, or I will 
call the guard!" 

Makar Semyonitch bent close over Aksyonof, and 
whispered, "Ivan Dmitritch, forgive me !" 

"What for?" asked Aksyonof. 

"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife 
among your things. I meant to kill you too, but I 
heard a noise outside; so I hid the knife in your bag 
and escaped out of the window." 

Aksyonof was silent, and did not know what to say. 
Makar Semyonitch slid off the bed-shelf and knelt 
upon the ground. "Ivan Dmitritch," said he, "forgive 
me ! For the love of God, forgive me ! I will confess 
that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will be 
released and can go to your home." 

"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksyonof, "but 
I have suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where 
could I go to now? . . . My wife is dead, and my chil- 
dren have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go. , . ." 



420 LEO TOLSTOI 

Makar Semyonitch did not rise, but beat his head 
on the floor. "Ivan Dmitritch, forgive me !" he cried. 
"When they flogged me with the knout it was not so 
hard to bear as it is to see you now . . . yet you had 
pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive 
me, wretch that I am !" And he began to sob. 

When Aksyonof heard him sobbing he, too, began 
to weep. 

"God will forgive you!" said he. "Maybe I am 
a hundred times worse than you." And at these words 
his heart grew light, and the longing for home left 
him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, 
but only hoped for his last hour to come. 

In spite of what Aksyonof had said, Makar Sem- 
yonitch confessed his guilt. But when the order for 
his release came, Aksyonof was already dead. 



Leo Tolstoi 



For many years Tolstoi kept the rank of the great- 
est living writer in the world. There was no one who 
could be mentioned seriously as a rival. Since his 
death the estimate in which he was previously held has 
not declined. Leo Tolstoi was born in 1828, at Yas- 
naya Polyana, in Southeast Russia, but while he was 
a boy his family moved to Moscow. He studied at 
the University of Kazan, leaving the school in 1847. 
During his school life he read a vast amount of fiction, 
familiarizing himself with the works of Gogol, Poush- 
kin, Dickens, Rousseau, Cooper, and other Russian, 
English, and French writers. He studied law in St. 



THE LONG EXILE 421 

Petersburg, and later enlisted in the army. Encour- 
aged by his aunt, who had brought him up, he began 
to make plans for devoting himself to literature, par- 
ticularly fiction. While still a young man, he wrote 
the novel Childhood, which was accepted and printed 
at once ; Dostoievski was much moved by it, but on the 
whole it did not attract much attention. 

Tolstoi served as an officer in the Crimean War, 
where he gathered the material for the powerful Se- 
vastopol series which finally made him famous. Tur- 
genev prophesied wonderful things for him, and every- 
where in Russia he was hailed as the coming literary 
conqueror. For a time he traveled in Europe. In 
1 86 1 he returned to Yasnaya Polyana and gave him- 
self up to the religious and democratic theories upon 
which he had been brooding for several years. He 
formulated schemes of education, and built schools 
in which to train and teach the peasants. Here he 
wrote his magnificent War and Peace, and in 1873 
his best known work, the novel, Anna* Karenina. It 
was chiefly through the popularity of this story that 
Tolstoi became known abroad. The tremendous vigor 
and sincerity of the book gave it a hold on the public 
mind that it has never lost. Almost all the people in 
the book are modeled upon real persons, Lavin being, 
of course, Tolstoi himself. 

As time went on, the great Russian yielded more 
and more to his extreme social and political views. 
My Religion is a product of this later period. At- 
tempting to live in the manner of the peasants, he went 
barefoot, renounced all luxuries, and made it his prac- 



422 LEO TOLSTOI 

tice to perform every sort of crude manual labor upon 
the farm. His conduct of life gained him great noto- 
riety, and not a little ridicule from those who thought 
it absurd for an intellectual giant to waste himself in 
cutting timber, sewing boots for the peasants, and 
brewing cabbage soup. The writings of his later years 
are mostly didactic, polemical, and autobiographical. 
He died in 1910. 

Tolstoi's terrible seriousness and his intense fidelity 
to realism have placed his fiction with the greatest in 
the world. It has, indeed, much of the Russian 
gloom; its prevailing grimness gives it national dis- 
tinction, but does not prevent its being welcomed by 
races less melancholy than the Russians. Master and 
Man is the best of Tolstoi's short-stories, based on 
actual experiences upon the snowy steppes. The 
Long Exile is a good example of the shorter type of 
tale which Tolstoi was fond of writing for the in- 
struction of the Russian people. Though didactic in 
tone, as the writer intended, it does not fail in literary 
excellence. 

bibliography 

Count Leo Tolstoi: 

Merejkowski, Dimitri : Tolstoi as Man and Artist. 
Phelps, W. L. : Essays on Russian Novelists. 
Turner, C. E. : Studies in Russian Literature. 
Maude, Aylmer: Tolstoi and His Problems. 
Lloyd, J. A. T. : Two Russian Reformers. 
Holland, Romain : Tolstoi. 
Birukoff, Paul: Leo Tolstoi. 



THE LONG EXILE 423 

Stories by Tolstoi: 
A Prisoner in the Caucasus. 
Master and Man. 
A Russian Proprietor. 
The Death of Ivan Ilyitch. 
Where Love Is, There God Is Also. 
Two Old Men. 

Neglect a Fire and It Spreads. 
What Men Live by. 
Three Deaths. 

Children Wiser Than Their Elders. 
Skazka. 

Lost on the Steppes: or, The Snowstorm. 
The Raid. 
The Godson. 
Recollections of a Billiard Marker. 



APPENDIX 

A LIST OF REFERENCE BOOKS AND SHORT- 
STORIES 

A List of Books Relating to the Art of Fiction 

Besant, Walter : The Art of Fiction. London. 
Cody, Sherman S. : How to Write 

Fiction London. 

Dye, Charity: The Story-teller's 

Art Ginn. 

Hamilton, Clayton: Materials and 

Methods of Fiction Baker and Taylor. 

Home, C. H. : The Technique of 

the Novel Harper. 

James, Henry: The Art of Fiction. Macmillan. 
Maxcey, Carroll L. : The Rhetorical 

Principles of Narrative Composi- 
tion Houghton Mifflin. 

Matthews, Brander: Aspects of 

Fiction Scribner. 

Perry, Bliss : The Study of Prose 

Fiction Houghton Mifflin. 

A List of Books Relating to the Short-story 

Albright, E. M. : The Short-story. . .Macmillan. 
Barrett, C. R. : Short-story Writing. Baker and Taylor. 

425 



426 APPENDIX 

Canby, H. S. : A Study of the, 
Short-story Holt. 

Canby, H. S. : The Short-story in 
English Holt. 

Chester, G. R. : The Art of Short- 
story Writing Publisher's Syndicate, 

Cincinnati. 

Davies, F. : Practical Story Writ- 
ing Walden Press. 

Esenwein, J. B. : Writing the 

Short-story Hinds Noble. 

Esenwein, J. B. : The Art of Story 

Writing Home Study Com- 
pany, Springfield, 
Mass. 

Gerwig, G. W. : The Art of the 

Short-story Werner. 

Matthews, Brander: The Philoso- 
phy of the Short-story Longmans. 

Phillips, H. A. : The Art of Short- 
story Narration Stanhope-Dodge. 

Phillips, H. A.: The Plot of the 
Short-story Stanhope-Dodge. 

Pitkin, W. B.: The Art and the 

Business of Short-story Writing. Macmillan. 

Quirk, L. W. : How to Write a 
Short-story Editor. 

Salisbury and Beckwith : Index to 
Short-stories Row Peterson. 

Smith, C. A. : The American Short- 
story Ginn. 

Smith, L. W. : The Writing of the 
Short-story Heath. 



APPENDIX 427 

Stories by English Authors 

A Lodging for the Night . . Robert Louis Steven- 
son. 

The Sire de Maletroit's Door. ... .Robert Louis Steven- 
son. 

Will o' the Mill Robert Louis Steven- 
son. 

The Man Who Was Rudyard Kipling. 

Without Benefit of Clergy Rudyard Kipling. 

They Rudyard Kipling. 

The Man Who Would Be King. . .Rudyard Kipling. 

The Black Poodle F. Anstey (pseud.) . 

That Brute Simmons Arthur Morrison. 

On the Stairs Arthur Morrison. 

The Black Badger Arthur Morrison. 

The Inconsiderate Waiter J. M. Barrie. 

How Gavin Birse Put It to Mag 
Lownie ,. . J. M. Barrie. 

The Drawn Blind A. T. Quiller-Couch. 

The Omnibus A. T. Quiller-Couch. 

The Three Strangers Thomas Hardy. 

The Withered Arm Thomas Hardy. 

The Lady of the Barge W. W. Jacobs. 

In the Library W. W. Jacobs. 

The Skipper's Wooing W. W. Jacobs. 

Representative Stories by German 'Authors 

A Cremona Violin E. T. W. Hoffman. 

The Sandman E. T. W. Hoffman. 

The Entail E. T. W. Hoffman. 

The Rider on the White Horse . . Theodor Storm. 
(Der Schimmelreiter) 



428 APPENDIX 

Immensee Theodor Storm. 

At St. Jurgen Theodor Storm. 

Good Blood Ernst von Wilden- 

bruch. 

L'Arrabbiata ..Paul Heyse. 

A New Year's Eve Confession ....Hermann Suder- 

mann. 
The Gooseherd Hermann Suder- 

mann. 

The Stone-breakers Ferdinand von Saar. 

The Fur Coat Ludwig Fulda. 

The Dead are Silent Arthur Schnitzler. 

Representative Stories by Italian Authors 

The Silver Crucifix Antonio Fogazzaro. 

The End of Candia Gabriele d' Annunzio. 

Cavalleria Rusticana Giovanni Verga. 

The Little Sardinian Drummer. . . .Edmondo de Amicis. 

Local Color Stories * 

Plain Tales from the Hills Rudyard Kipling. 

Little Novels of Italy Maurice Hewlett. 

The Luck of Roaring Camp and 

Other Stories Bret Harte. 

A Day at Laguerre's and Other 

Days F. Hopkinson Smith. 

Vignettes of Manhattan Brander Matthews. 

Stories of a Western Town Alice French (Oc- 
tave Thanet). 

The Heart of Toil Alice French (Oc- 
tave Thanet). 

*In most cases the titles given refer to collections of short- 
stories. 



APPENDIX 429 

The Cat and the Cherub Chester B. Fernald. 

Love of Life Jack London. 

Lost Face Jack London. 

Children of the Frost — Jack London. 

Out of Gloucester J. B. Connolly. 

Meadow Grass Alice Brown. 

The Chase of St. Castin and Other 

Stories Mary Hartwell Cath- 

erwood. 

The Stickit Minister . . .. S. R. Crockett. 

Ghetto Comedies Israel Zangwill. 

Through Welsh Doorways Jeannette Marks. 

Wessex Tales Thomas Hardy. 

Arizona Nights Stewart Edward 

White. 
The Queen's Twin and Other 

Stories Sarah Orne Jewett. 

The King of Folly Island and 

Other Stories Sarah Orne Jewett. 

The Snow Storm Leo Tolstoi. 

Youma Lafcadio Hearn. 

Tales of a Greek Island Julia D. Dragoumis. 

The Village Watch-tower Kate Douglas Wiggin 

The Imported Bridegroom and 

Other Stories Abraham Cahan. 

Dialect Stories * 

Auld Licht Idylls J. M. Barrie. 

Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush John Watson (Ian 

Maclaren) . 

* Most of these stories may be used as examples of local 
color. Almost without exception, the titles given refer to col- 
lections of short-stories. 



430 APPENDIX 

Tales of New England Sarah Orne Jewett. 

A Native of Winby and Other 

Stories Sarah Orne Jewett. 

A New England Nun and Other 

Stories Mary E. W i 1 k i n s 

Freeman. 

A Humble Romance Mary E. W i 1 k i n s 

Freeman. 

A Country Road Alice Brown. 

Tiverton Tales Alice Brown. 

In Ole Virginia Thomas Nelson Page. 

Christmas Eve on Lonesome John Fox. 

Old Creole Days George W. Cable. 

Strange True Stories of Louisiana. George W. Cable. 

Main Travelled Roads Hamlin Garland. 

The Dancin' Party at Harrison's 

Cove Mary E. Murf ree. 

Nights with Uncle Remus Joel Chandler Harris. 

Wolf ville Days Alfred Henry Lewis. 

Divers Vanities Arthur Morrison. 

Odd Craft W. W. Jacobs. 



Stories of Dramatic Interest and Technique 

The Outcasts of Poker Flat Bret Harte. 

The Attack on the Mill ifimile Zola. 

The Venus of Ille Prosper Merimee. 

The Shot .Alexander Poushkin. 

The Fall of the House of Usher. .Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Pit and the Pendulum Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Black Cat Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Necklace Guy de Maupassant. 

A Piece of String Guy de Maupassant. 



APPENDIX 431 

The Three Strangers Thomas Hardy. 

La Grande Breteche Honore de Balzac. 

The Sire de Maletroit's Door Robert Louis Steven- 
son. 

The Signal V. M. Garshin. 

The Man Who Was Rudyard Kipling. 

Without Benefit of Clergy Rudyard Kipling. 

Master and Man Leo Tolstoi. 

A Lear of the Steppes Ivan Turgenev. 






Characterization Stories 

Quite So Thomas Bailey Al- 

drich. 

Brooksmith Henry James. 

Four Meetings Henry James. 

Louisa Pallant Henry James. 

The Chaperon Henry James. 

In the Cage Henry James. 

Rosy Balm Alice Brown. 

A Church Mouse Mary E. Wilkins 

Freeman. 

Tchelkache Maxim Gorky. 

Marse Chan Thomas Nelson Page. 

The Old Gentleman of the Black 

Stock Thomas Nelson Page. 

The Stickit Minister S. R. Crockett. 

A Second-rate Woman Rudyard Kipling. 

The Incarnation of Krishna Mul- 

vaney Rudyard Kipling. 

The Story of the Gadsbys Rudyard Kipling. 

Baa-baa Black Sheep Rudyard Kipling. 

Tennessee's Partner Bret Harte. 

M'liss Bret Harte. 



432 APPENDIX 

The Fool of Five Forks Bret Harte. 

A Lodging for the Night Robert Louis Steven- 
son. 

The Hundred and Oneth Annie Hamilton Don- 

nell. 

The Tale of Chloe George Meredith. 

The Jew . . Ivan Turgenev. 

Mumu Ivan Turgenev. 

The Insurgent Ludovic Halevy. 

Good Blood Ernst von Wilden- 

bruch. 

Aunt Cynthy Dallett Sarah Orne Jewett. 



Analytical Stories 

The Case of General Ople and 

Lady Camper George Meredith. 

Markheim Robert Louis Steven- 
son. 

A Coward Guy De Maupassant. 

The Liar Henry James. 

Nona Vincent Henry James. 

The Beldonald Holbein Henry James. 

Paste Henry James. 

The Aspern Papers Henry James. 

The Turn of the Screw Henry James. 

The Greater Inclination Edith Wharton. 

Crucial Instances (Collection) . . ..Edith Wharton. 

The Red Flower V. M. Garshin. 

A Simple Heart Gustave Flaubert. 

William Wilson Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Phoenix August Strindberg. 

The Death of Ivan Ilyitch . . . . Leo Tolstoi. 



APPENDIX 433 

"Human Interest" Stories* 

Master and Man Leo Tolstoi. 

Justice and the Judge Margaret Deland. 

The Lotus Eaters Virginia Tracy. 

Miss Tempy's Watchers Sarah Orne Jewett. 

The Cloak Nicholas Gogol. 

The Vices of the Captain ....... Frangois Coppee. 

The Mothers Alphonse Daudet. 

The Last Class Alphonse Daudet. 

Tennessee's Partner Bret Harte. 

Irene Holm H. J. Bang. 

The Stone-breakers Ferdinand von Saar. 

The Happiest Time Mary Stewart Cut- 
ting. 

Twenty-six and One Maxim Gorky. 

The Rendezvous (Or: The Tryst). Ivan Turgenev. 

Stories of Fancy and Sentiment 

A Child's Dream of a Star Charles Dickens. 

The Brushwood Boy Rudyard Kipling. 

The Legend of the Christmas Rose.Selma Lagerlof. 

Pere Antoine's Date-palm Thomas Bailey Al- 

drich. 

The Celestial Railroad Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne. 

A Virtuoso's Collection Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne. 

Little Annie's Ramble ...Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne. 

* Most of these stories may be classified under various other 
headings. 



434 APPENDIX 

The Threefold Destiny Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne. 

The Bee-man of Orne Frank R. Stockton. 

The Blue Flower Henry Van Dyke. 

Surprise Stories 

The Lady or the Tiger ? Frank R. Stockton. 

The Remarkable Wreck of the 

Thomas Hyke Frank R. Stockton. 

A Tale of Negative Gravity Frank R. Stockton. 

Who Was She ? Bayard Taylor. 

Marjorie Daw Thomas Bailey Al- 

drich. 
A Struggle for Life Thomas Bailey Al- 

drich. 
Mademoiselle Olympe Zabriski . . . Thomas Bailey Al- 

drich. 
A New Year's Eve Confession ...Hermann Suder- 

mann. 

Humorous Stories 

Philosophy Four Owen Wister. 

Pigs Is Pigs Ellis Parker Butler. 

The Jumping Frog Samuel L. Clemens. 

The Love-letters of Smith H. C. Bunner. 

A Winter Courtship Sarah Orne Jewett. 

Fame's Little Day Sarah Orne Jewett. 

A Change of Treatment W. W. Jacobs. 

The Rajah's Diamond (A Bur- 
lesque) Robert Louis Steven- 
son. 

Goliath Thomas Bailey Al- 

drich. 



APPENDIX 435 

Colonel Starbottle for the Plaint- 
iff Bret Harte. 



Stories of Domestic Life 

Little Stories of Married Life Mary Stewart Cut- 
ting. 

More Stories of Married Life .... Mary Stewart Cut- 
ting. 

The Suburban Whirl Mary Stewart Cut- 
ting. 

Old Chester Tales Margaret Deland. 

Doctor Lavendar's People .Margaret Deland. 

Mr. Tommy Dove and Other 

Stories Margaret Deland. 

The Wisdom of Fools Margaret Deland. 

The Girl from the Marsh Croft . . Selma Lagerlof . 

Phoebe and Ernest Inez Haynes Gill- 
more. 

Pa Flickinger's Folks Bessie R. Hoover. 

Friendship Village Love Stories . . Zona Gale. 

Their Husbands' Wives (Harper's 

Novelettes) Howells and Alden 

(Editors). 

Short-stories Mary E. Wilkins 

Freeman. 

Short-stories Sarah Orne Jewett. 

Short-stories Mary Heaton Vorse. 

Stories of Children 
Collections : 

Little Citizens Myra Kelly. 

Wards of Liberty Myra Kelly. 



436 APPENDIX 

Emmy Lou : Her Book and Heart. .George Madden Mar- 
tin. 

The Golden Age ,Kenneth Grahame. 

Dream Days Kenneth Grahame. 

In the Morning Glow Roy Rolfe Gilson. 

The Would-be-goods „E. Nesbit. 

The Court of Boyville William Allen White. 

Stratagems and Spoils William Allen White. 

Rebecca Mary Annie Hamilton Don- 

nell. 
Single Stories : 

The Pope is Dead Alphonse Daudet. 

The Death of the Dauphin Alphonse Daudet. 

Boum-Boum Jules Claretie. 

The Story of Muhammad Din. . . .Rudyard Kipling. 

Wee Willie Wlnkie Rudyard Kipling. 

The Lady of Shallott. Elizabeth Stuart 

Phelps. 

A Dog of Flanders Louise de la Ramee. 

A Suitable Child Norman Duncan. 

The Lost Child Frangois Coppee. 

Valia Leonidas Andreiev. 

The Curse of Fame I. N. Potapenko. 

Detective Stories 

The Gold-bug Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Purloined Letter Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Mystery of Marie Roget Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Murders in the Rue Morgue . . Edgar Allan Poe. 
The Adventures of Sherlock 

Holmes A. Conan Doyle. 

Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes ... .A. Conan Doyle. 



APPENDIX 437 

The Hound of the Baskervilles . ..A. Conan Doyle. 
A Double-barreled Detective StorySamuel L. Clemens. 

Gallegher Richard Harding 

Davis. 
The Nail Pedro de Alarcon. 



T 



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